as far as the street, and threw it into the grass, where Bob now found it.
By the time Bob had gone up the other side of the street nearly to its end, he had gathered up sixteen of the lost letters. There was only one house left. It was a big residence. A rich family named Dunbar lived there. Bob knew they were still absent at some summer resort.
"Did you leave any of the letters here, Walter?" he asked of his little charge.
"Oh, yes, all of the rest of them."
"How many?"
"Three—no, four, I guess," replied Walter. "You see, it's a big house, and I thought a good many people would live in it."
"Where did you put the letters?" asked Bob.
"I threw them right up on the porch."
"I don't see them," said Bob.
The porch was sheltered by vines. Bob walked around the yard. He knew that no one occupied the house just now. There was quite a breeze, and he thought that maybe the wind had blown the letters out into the garden.
Bob looked all about the lot. It slanted at the rear to a little creek. He noticed papers and leaves all along this, but he did not come across the missing letters.
"They must have blown away," he said to himself, "unless they're on the other end of the porch. I'll look there."
Bob went up to the steps. He paused, a little surprised, as he noticed, stretched out on a rustic settee in its shade, a shabbily-dressed man he had never seen in Fairview before.
"Hello, mister," spoke Bob.
"Why, hello, lad," replied the man, getting up and looking Bob over in a sharp, quick way. "Belong here?"
