ifornian. "That shop with the spinning wheel sign over the door. It's a queer old place, kept by a down-east Yankee, to judge by his talk."
"The worst kind of a fellow with whom to talk business such as we have," said Sid. "He'll stand on his rights to the last inch or penny. But there's no help for it."
They were almost in front of the place now, and they strove to appear indifferent—as though they were merely strolling by; for, as Tom said, first they wanted to catch a glimpse of their chair in the window, and then they would have the evidence they needed.
Four pairs of eyes were turned simultaneously toward the dingy casement, in which stood an odd assortment of chairs, tables, small sofas and other antique furniture. Four gasps of breath told more plainly than any words the shock of surprise that followed the glances.
"It isn't there!" cried Tom.
"It's gone!" added Sid. Truly enough there was no big, old-fashioned, easy chair in the window.
"Maybe it's in the other," suggested Frank. "I told you I wasn't sure whether it was the left or right window."
Phil darted across the doorway.
"It isn't over here, either!" he cried, as a rapid survey of the contents of that window disclosed
