A mad cry fell from the lips of the Professor when he felt himself unceremoniously scalped. The next instant his right hand drew forth a gleaming knife.
"Oh! Ah! MURDER!"
A dark form went backward over the dock; a splash followed, and the Professor stood alone. He peered into the muddy water to note the fact that it flowed on calmly as before.
Then Ruggles picked up his hat and wig, and readjusted them on his head.
"My soul! that was a narrow escape."
At this moment another form was seen approaching, and the Professor, deeming it prudent to move away, was soon striding from the spot, his tall form disappearing in the shadows before the third person reached the edge of the dock.
On the day following the events last narrated, a man ran up the steps at the Darrel cottage in Woodburg, and rang the bell.
Nell answered, and met the gentlemanly Mr. Elliston. She led the way at once to a room opening from the hall, where preparations had been made for a lunch.
"Where is Dyke?" questioned the gentleman the moment he was seated.
"I haven't seen him since he left for Chicago to look into the express robbery," returned Nell. "Haven't you met him?"
"No. Strange he did not write if he meant to be gone long," remarked Elliston. "You were about to dine, I see."
"Yes; will you keep me company?"
"With pleasure."
"I thought Dyke would be with me ere this," proceeded Nell, as they discussed the edibles. "When he goes for a long stay she usually drops me a line."
After the lunch, Mr. Elliston left his chair and crossed the room to glance from the window, at the same time plucking at his short beard in an apparently nervous manner.
Nell was on the point of removing the ware from the table, when Mr. Elliston turned suddenly, and resumed his seat at the table.
"Sit down, Nell, I wish a word with you."
The girl sank once more into a chair, wondering what was coming.
Laying both hands on her shoulders, Harper Elliston looked her in the eyes and said:
"You must have guessed the object of my visit to-day, Nellie Darrel."
She blushed under his gaze, and looked away nervously.
"N—oo, I can't say that I do. I suppose you came to see my brother."
"Not so. It is you I wished to see, Nell. Why have I come here so often? I know you must have guessed before this. I love you, dear girl, and want you to be mine—"
He could say no more then, for Nell Darrel started sharply to her feet, pressing her hands to her burning face.
"No, no, not that." she murmured. "I never suspected that, Mr. Elliston."
"But listen to me, Nell," he pleaded, reaching up and attempting to draw her hands aside. "I can give you a handsome home in New York. If you will be my wife, I will return there at once."
She tore herself from his hands, and her confusion vanished, a feeling of indignation taking its place.
"Mr. Elliston, I tell you I do not love you, and never can. I was never more surprised in my life than now. You are old enough to be my father, sir."
He came to his feet also, and leaned with his hands clinching the top of a chair. There was a frown on his brow and a glitter in his black eyes unpleasant to see.
"Must I call you coquette?" he said, in an undertone of concentrated feeling. "You certainly have encouraged me."
"Never, sir," was the indignant response.
"Then our paths must lie apart hereafter, I suppose, Miss Darrel?"
"That is as you shall determine," she answered. "As my brother's friend, I have tolerated you, and can do so in the future."
"Ah! It was only TOLERATION then. I did not think this of you, Nell Darrel. Do you know that many of the wealthiest, most beautiful maidens of Gotham would jump at the offer you have just spurned so lightly?"
"I will not deny it."
"I could have long ago taken a partner to share my life in my elegant home on Fifth avenue, but do you know the reason of my not doing so? I can tell you. I had not seen a girl to my taste. Until I came West I believed I should never marry. From the moment of meeting you, however, I changed my mind. To see was to love, and—"
"Please cease, Mr. Elliston," pleaded Nell Darrel, putting out her hand deprecatingly. "This is a most painful subject to me."
"Very well."
With a sigh he crossed the floor and stood by the window once more. He seemed struggling to keep down his emotions. At that moment the detective's sister pitied the man, and felt really sorry that she had unintentionally been the means of making him miserable.
"Mr. Elliston, please do not feel so badly. I respect you, and hope we may ever be friends."
She approached him and held out her hand. He turned and regarded her with a queer glow in his eyes.
"I accept your proffer of continued friendship," he said with a forced smile. "It is better so than open war between us."
"It would avail nothing to make war on a friend," she said simply. "I respect you very highly, Mr. Elliston, and as Dyke's friend, shall always hope to retain your good opinion."
"Whatever may happen, you will have that," he returned.
Soon after the gentleman departed. The moment he was gone Nell Darrel sank to a chair, and, bowing her head on the table, began to cry.
Strange proceeding, was it not, after what had taken place? Women are enigmas that man, after ages of study, has been unable to solve.
Another face came before the girl's mind at that moment, the face of one to whom her heart had been given in the past, and who, for some unaccountable reason, had failed to put in an appearance or write during the past six months.
"If Harry were only here," murmured the girl, as she raised her head and wiped the tears from her pretty eyes. "I know something has happened to him—something terrible."
At this moment Aunt Jule, the colored housekeeper, the only other resident of the cottage, aside from Nell Barrel and her brother, entered the room, and her appearance at once put an end to Nell's weeping.
"Marse Elliston done gone. What did he want, honey?"
"To see Dyke," answered Nell, with a slight twinge at uttering such a monstrous falsehood.
"Marse Dyke don't come yet. 'Deed but he's full of business dese times. Marse Dyke a great man, honey."
If the old negress noticed traces of tears on the face of her young mistress, she was sharp enough to keep the discovery to herself.
In the meantime, Mr. Elliston made his way to the principal hotel in the little city and sought his room. He was a regular boarder, but, like other men of leisure, he was not regular at meals or room. Nevertheless, he paid his board promptly, and that was the desideratum with the landlord.
The man's teeth gleamed above his short, gray-streaked beard, as he sat down and meditated on the situation.
"So, I can be her friend still. Well, that is something. I don't mean to give up so. Dark clouds are gathering over your life, Nell Darrel, and when the blackest shadow of the storm bends above and howls about you, in that hour you may conclude that even an elderly gentleman like myself will DO."
Again the man's teeth gleamed and the black eyes glittered.
"I have set my heart on winning that girl. A mock marriage will do as well as anything, and such beauty and freshness will bring money in New York."
Harper Elliston remained in his room until a late lour. After the shades of evening fell he left the room and hotel with a small grip in his hand. He turned his steps in the direction of the railway station. Arrived at the depot, he purchased a ticket for St. Louis. Then he sauntered outside and stood leaning against the depot in a shaded spot.
It would be five minutes only until the departure of the train. There were troubled thoughts in the brain of Harper Elliston that night.
A touch on his hand caused him to start. At thin fold of paper was passed into his palm. Turning quickly, Elliston saw a shadowy form disappear in the gloom.
"Confound it, who are you?" growled the tall man, angrily. Then, remembering the paper, he went to a light, and opening it, held it up to his gaze.
"HARPER ELLISTON: Go slow in your plot against Nell Darrel. She has a friend who will see that her enemies are punished. Beware! The volcano on which you tread is about to burst."
No name was signed to the paper.
At this moment the express came thundering in; the conductor's "all aboard" sounded, and, crunching the paper in his hands, Elliston had hardly time to spring on board ere the train went rushing away into the darkness.
Martin Skidway was an old offender, and through the efforts of Dyke Darrel he and his uncle had been detected in crime and sent to the Missouri State prison for a term of years. It was a mere accident that the detective came upon the escaped young counterfeiter, or rather it was through the young villain's own foolhardiness that he was again in durance vile.
"I will not serve my time out, you can bet high on that," asserted the young prisoner in a confident tone.
Dyke Darrel more than half suspected that the young counterfeiter knew something of the late crime on the midnight express, and during the ride to St. Louis he did all that he could to worm a confession from the prisoner.
"It is possible that you may get your freedom at an early day," said the detective. "I have heard of men turning State's evidence, and profiting by it."
"I suppose so."
"I would advise you to think on this, Martin Skidway."
"Why should I think on it? Do you think I'm a fool, Dyke Darrel?"
"Not quite," and the detective smiled. "I know you have been pretty sharp, young man, but not keen enough to escape punishment. You have five years yet to serve, at the end of which time you may be arrested and hung for another crime."
"You are giving me wind now."
"I am not. A terrible crime was committed four and twenty hours since, and on this road; a midnight crime that the whole country will work to punish. It will we impossible for the express robbers to escape."
"You are a braggart!"
"I do not say thatIwill be the one to bring these villains to justice, but I do say that justice will be done, and I expect to see the murderers of Arnold Nicholson hung." The keen eyes of Dyke Darrel fixed themselves on the face of his prisoner, with a penetrating sharpness that fairly made the fellow squirm in his seat. On more than one occasion had the railroad detective brought confession from the lips of guilt, through the magnetism of his terrible glance.
He tried his powers on the man at his side, and found him yielding to the pressure, when Skidway suddenly turned his face to the window, and refused to encounter the gaze of his captor.
By this means he was able to defy the magnetic powers of the detective.
"Martin Skidway, you may as well admit that you know something of this latest villainy. Even if you were not connected with it, you know WHO was?"
The prisoner remained silent.
Dyke Darrel proceeded:
"You said that you were a brakeman on the train on which poor Nicholson found his death. Was that the truth?"
"It was."
"It is now for your own good that you make confession, Martin Skidway!"
"I've nothing to confess."
"Be careful!"
"You can't scare me into telling a lie," said the prisoner, with an assumption of bravado that he did not feel. "I don't know anything about the express robbers, only what I've told you; you can make the most of that."
"I mean to do so," assured Dyke Darrel. "I shall not leave the trail until the perpetrators of that crime are secured and punished. In that day you may wish that you had not been so obstinate."
"I have told all I know."
"I hope you have!"
"You believe I am lying, Dyke Darrel?"
"It doesn't matter what I believe," retorted the detective. "Of course, you are not of the sort who believe in telling facts when a falsehood will serve you better. I did not expect anything different."
Arrived at the Southwestern metropolis, Dyke Darrel turned his prisoner over to the proper officers, warning them of the dangerous nature of young Skidway, and then he turned his thoughts and feet in another channel.
Dyke Darrel went to the office of the railroad company on whose road the midnight crime had been committed, and consulted with one of the officers in regard to the same.
"It is a terrible affair," said Mr. Holden, the officer in question. "I telegraphed our folks in Chicago to employ detectives in that city, and expect to have the best talent in the country look into this."
"Of course. Any clew discovered?"
"None."
"I believe the villains covered their tracks well," said Dyke Darrel. "The express messenger who was murdered was a personal friend."
"Your friend?"
"Yes; one I had known for years, which explains my interest in the case. I suppose I have your good wishes in hunting down the outlaws?"
"Well, of course; but it is a task that may tax the coolness and ingenuity of skilled detectives. Amateurs have no place on this case, I assure you."
"Admitted," returned the young detective, with a smile. "You have heard of Dyke Darrel?"
"I should think I had. He is the best detective in the West, now that Pinkerton is gone; he was a trusted friend of Allan Pinkerton, too."
"He was."
"I've telegraphed for our people to see about employing Dyke Darrel. I shan't be content without."
Again a smile swept the face of the young detective.
"It seems that you never met Dyke Darrel, Mr. Holden."
"Never; but—-"
"You see him now at any rate."
"What?"
"Iam Dyke Darrel."
"YOU?"
"The same."
"Dyke Darrel, the railroad detective; the fellow who captured the brute Crogan, and broke up the counterfeiters' nest near Iron Mountain; the man who has sent more criminals over the road than any other detective in the wide West—YOU?"
"The same, at your service," and Darrel bowed and smiled again.
"Well, I AM astonished."
Nevertheless the incredulous railway official seemed pleased at the last, and shook the young detective warmly by the hand.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Darrel, and hope we can induce you to take up this case. A great many suspects have been reported, but I take stock in none of them. I trust the whole affair (the management of it, I mean) to you. Will you go into it, Mr. Darrel?"
"Certainly."
Some time longer the detective and official talked, and the lamps in the streets were lit when Dyke Darrel left the presence of Mr. Holden, and turned his steps toward a hotel.
"I must send a line to Nell," mused the detective, as he moved along. "I shall remain a short time in St. Louis, as I may pick up some points here that will be of use to me. I am of the opinion that either this city or Chicago holds the perpetrators of this latest railroad crime."
The detective did not see the shadowy form flitting along not far behind. A man had shadowed the detective since his departure from the railway office. Dyke Darrel, in order to make a short cut, had entered a narrow street, where the lights were few and the buildings dingy and of a mean order.
Moving on, deeply wrapped in thought, the detective permitted his "shadow" to steal upon him, and just as Dyke Darrel came opposite a narrow alley, the shadow sprang forward and dealt him a stunning blow on the head.
The detective reeled, but did not fall. Partially stunned, he turned upon his assailant, only to meet the gleam of cold steel as a knife descended into his bosom!
Dyke Darrel was so dazed from the blow he had received as to be unable to ward off the dirk that was thrust at his bosom by the vile assassin, and had not a third party appeared on the scene at this critical moment the story we are now writing would never have been told.
A kind Providence had on more than one occasion favored the daring railroad detective.
Before the point of the knife touched the breast of Dyke Darrel, a swift-flying object sent the deadly weapon out into the middle of the street.
The next instant a man bounded from the shadow of a building upon the would-be assassin. There was a short struggle, when the last comer found, that instead of the detective's assailant, he held a coat in his hands.
The villain had made good his escape.
"Confound you!" greeted the new comer.
"Who was it?"
"I saw him following you, sir, and made up my mind that some villainy was in the wind. I do not know who the villain was. Are you hurt?"
"Not in the least."
Then the two men walked on until a lamp-post was gained. Here the features of each were plainly revealed.
A low exclamation fell from the lips of Dyke Darrel.
"Good thunder, Harry Bernard! how are you? Where in the world did you spring from?"
The detective grasped and wrung the man's hand warmly—a rather slender young fellow, with brown hair and eyes, a mustache being the only sign of beard on his face.
"One question at a time, Dyke," returned the young man with a laugh. "I mistrusted it was you all the time. It strikes me that you are becoming careless in your old age. Hope you're not in love—THAT makes a fool of a man sometimes?"
"Does it? No, I'm not in any such predicament; fact is, I am wedded to my profession and shall never marry. But, Harry, you haven't answered my questions yet."
"You asked me how I get on; I can answer that by saying that I was never better in my life. I have been across the plains, among cowboys and Indians, and it's given me strong muscles and good health. I arrived in St. Louis this morning. It was the merest chance that placed me in a position to do you a service, Dyke. As I said before, it seems to me that you are getting careless. Just imagine what the result would have been had I not put in an appearance. I have the fellow's coat to show for the adventure."
"True enough. I admit that I was careless," returned the detective, "and my adventure will serve to put me on my guard hereafter. Come with me to my room, Harry, and we will talk over matters in general. I must take the midnight express North, and may not see you again soon, unless you conclude to go on with me."
"I shall remain in St. Louis for the present," returned young Bernard.
He went with his friend to the hotel, however, and soon the two were in the privacy of Dyke Darrel's room.
"Now, then, let us look at that coat." Harry Bernard laid the garment down on the bed, and Darrel began a close examination of the same. It was an ordinary sack coat, with two inside pockets. The detective was not long in going through the pockets.
"Ah!"
The ejaculation was significant.
It fell from the lips of Dyke Darrel, the detective.
"Now what?" questioned Bernard.
"Look at that."
Dyke Darrel held aloft a handkerchief that had once been white, but which was now dingy with dirt. But this was not the only discoloration. There was a stain on the square bit of linen that was significant.
"What is it?"
"Blood!" answered Dyke Darrel.
Then the detective made a close examination, and made still another discovery—a name in one corner of the rumpled handkerchief.
The keen eyes of the detective gleamed with a satisfied light.
"What have you discovered, Dyke?"
"A clew."
"To what?"
"To the most infamous crime of the century. This handkerchief has the name of its owner stamped plainly in the corner."
"Well?"
"Arnold Nicholson."
"What?"
"That is the name on this bit of linen, which shows that it was once the property of the murdered express messenger. Of course you have heard of the crime on the Central?"
"Yes. It gave me a shock, too. Arnold was a good fellow."
Harry Bernard's face wore a serious look as he took the blood-stained handkerchief from the hand of the detective, and examined it with mournful interest.
"It must be that you were assaulted by one of the train robbers, Dyke," said the youth, as he returned the relic of that midnight crime.
"I imagine so. The scoundrels have discovered that I am on the trail, and they mean to put me out on the first base, if possible. Did you see the man's face who assaulted me, Harry?"
"Imperfectly. I know, however, that he had red hair."
"Ah!"
"You suspected as much?"
"Yes. In the dead man's fingers was a bit of red hair. It seems conclusive that the villain who assaulted me to-night was the one who engaged in the death struggle with poor Nicholson. The trail is becoming plain, and before the National holiday rolls round I hope to have the perpetrator of this crime behind prison bars."
"I hope you are not over-sanguine, Dyke."
"I have ever been successful."
"How about the Osborne case?"
"Ah, yes; but that isn't off yet. I expect that the murderers of the old captain will come to light about the time the railway criminals are brought to justice."
"Indeed."
"There are several hands engaged in these bloody crimes, and when I do make a haul, it will be a wholesale one."
"I should think you would need help in a work of this kind."
"I do."
"Can I be of any service? You may command me, Dyke."
"Thanks. You were of inestimable service to-night, and I believe you can do more. It would please me to have you remain in this city and keep an eye out, while I go up the road to the spot where the crime was committed."
"You know the place?"
"Certainly. It was near Black Hollow, a wild spot, where the woods along the creek afforded chance for hiding. Some of the rascals are yet in that vicinity, I believe. The one who assaulted me to-night may not remain in the city long. You will do as I wish?"
"Certainly; glad to do it, Dyke."
"That settles one point, then. If I need any more help I know where I can find it."
"Where?"
"Elliston. He is something of a detective, you know."
Harry Bernard frowned at mention of that name. The pleasant look vanished from his face, and he relapsed into silence.
Holding up the handkerchief, Dyke Darrel said:
"This was used by the assassin to wipe his bloody hands after the murder. He was a fool to keep the tell-tale linen by him; but these fellows are always leaving some loophole open. I have made one discovery that may have escaped your notice, Harry."
"What is that?"
"Look." Laying the bloody handkerchief over the young man's knee, Dyke Darrel pointed to a spot near the center, where the imprint of fingers was plainly visible.
"You see that?"
"Certainly; the marks of human fingers, but I can't see that you will be able to make anything out of that, so many hands are alike, you know."
Then Harry laid his own hand against the spot stained with blood. "My hand fits exactly."
The eyes of Dyke Darrel began to dilate. His usually immobile features began to twitch, and a deadly pallor overspread all.
What was it that had caught the eye of Dyke Darrel, to cause such terrible emotion? He had indeed made a discovery.
A close examination of the finger-marks showed a white circle, centered with a ragged dot of blood near the knuckle; this had undoubtedly been caused by a wart on the hand of the assassin. It was this fact that had attracted and interested Dyke Darrel, and what he intended showing his friend Harry Bernard. The moment Harry laid his hand against the print on the handkerchief the detective made a startling discovery. Not only did the hand of Harry Bernard fit the bloody stain exactly, but a large wart near the knuckle of the little finger fell exactly against the spot that dotted the center of the white circle.
A feeling of unutterable horror filled the mind of Dyke Darrel at that moment. Harry Bernard had been his friend for years, and he had always found him upright and true.
But what meant this horrible revelation of the handkerchief?
Could it be possible that another had the same-sized hand and a wart near the knuckle of the little finger? It was not likely.
Dyke Darrel came to his feet, with cold perspiration oozing out upon his brow. Before him sat Harry Bernard, smiling gently, and yet he had a devil in his heart—THE DEVIL OF ASSASSINATION!
For some moments neither man spoke. Harry Bernard noticed that his friend was deeply moved, and he seemed to wonder at the cause. At length he said:
"Dyke, what is it?"
"Nothing, only—-"
"Well, speak out," as the detective hesitated.
"It is strange that your hand should so exactly fit the marks on the handkerchief, Harry."
"Well, yes," admitted the youth; "I hope you didn't imagine, however, thatIhad a hand in this railway robbery and murder?"
At the last Harry Bernard laughed lightly. Dyke Darrel did not seem to relish the young fellow's lightness, and only frowned.
"This is not a laughing matter, Harry Bernard," said the detective, sternly.
"Well I should say not. If you have a serious thought that I could do such a deed, Dyke, place me under arrest at once."
There was an expression of rebuke on the face of Bernard as he uttered the last words. He did not look like a criminal, that was certain, and after a moment Dyke Darrel felt ashamed of his suspicions.
"Never mind, Harry, I could not help feeling shocked. Let it pass; I will not wrong you by suspicion. But you will admit that it was a strange thing, your hand fitting so perfectly."
"Not at all. Put your own hand here," returned Bernard.
Dyke Darrel did so, but it was not so near a fit as Harry's. It was not the size of the hand, but the imprint of the wart that had so startled the detective. Harry had not discovered the true cause of his friend's excitement, and the detective concluded to say nothing about it then.
Time was flying. The midnight express would soon leave the city.
"I cannot remain with you longer," said Dyke Darrel, at length. "I shall leave the case at this end of the route in your hands, Harry, and if at any time you wish to communicate with me, address me at Woodburg."
"All right. What shall we do with this?"
Harry indicated the coat that still lay on the bed.
"You may retain that, but I will keep the handkerchief. Both may be of use in the future."
Soon after the two men separated.
Dyke Darrel went at once to the depot, and soon after nine that evening he was speeding northward at the rate of forty miles an hour. At the first stop outside of the city three passengers boarded the train. One was a short, thick-set man, with beard and hair of a dark color; the others were women. The man entered the smoking car and thrust himself into an unoccupied seat, and glanced keenly about him.
The man had no ticket, but paid the conductor to a station a hundred miles from the city.
While sitting with his back to the aisle, a touch on the shoulder roused him.
"Eh, it's you, Ruggles?"
"Ahem—seat occupied?"
"No."
The man we have met on a previous occasion, Professor Darlington Ruggles, settled himself beside the late comer.
"Ahem—fine evening."
A grunt answered the Professor's attempt to be sociable. At length, after casting a keen glance about the car, to find that but few passengers were present, and those of but little consequence, Professor Ruggles said:
"He's in the next car."
"Yes. I'd like to get my clutches onto him agin."
"You had him once?"
"Yes, but he had help, and escaped. Do you imagine he's on the trail?"
"Certainly," answered Professor Ruggles.
"Then he'll get off to-night."
"I hope so; but you must be cautious."
"Trust me for that."
"Have you formulated a plan?"
"None."
"Then let me help you."
"I'll be glad to do so."
"If we can get the fellow onto the platform the work will be easy. You understand, Sam?"
"I reckon."
"Once he goes over nothing can save him."
"True, but how will we git the cuss outside?"
"Easy's preaching. I'll go and introduce myself and get him to wait this car to try an excellent brand of cigars—see?" And the Professor chuckled audibly.
"I expect it's easier said than done," returned the thickset villain. "Twixt you 'n me, Ruggles, Dyke Darrel's cut his eye teeth, an' he don't walk into no traps with his eyes open, I can tell you that."
"Well, we'll see about it. I flatter myself that I'm sharper than any detective that ever lived."
Then, adjusting his glasses, the sunset-haired Professor left his seat and walked down the aisle to the door. He came hurrying back with an interested, perhaps anxious look on his countenance.
"Now's your time, Sam," whispered Professor Ruggles; "the fellow's on the platform smoking!"
This was fully two hours after the thickset man first stepped upon the train. He at once came to his feet, and sauntered in a careless manner to the door. The night was not dark, and the man could plainly see a dark form leaning against the end of the opposite car, a bright red gleam showing the end of his cigar.
It was indeed Dyke Darrel, who had come out upon the platform to cool his heated brow and reflect on the situation, while he smoked a cigar for its soothing influence.
He could not drive the thought of Harry Bernard and the train robbery from his mind. He remembered that the young man had left Woodburg suddenly the fall before, and nothing had been seen or heard from him by his friends since, until Dyke's meeting him so strangely in St. Louis. It was barely possible that the assault and the rescue by young Bernard were part of a deep-laid plot. Dyke Darrel possessed a suspicious mind, and he could not reconcile appearances with the innocence of young Harry Bernard.
Deeply meditating, the detective scarcely noticed the opening of the car door opposite his position. His gaze, however, soon met the form of a man as he stepped across the narrow opening between the coaches.
The detective was instantly on the alert. He was not to be caught napping, as he had been once before that night.
The moment the stranger passed to his platform, Dyke Darrel faced him with a drawn revolver in his hand.
"Mr., I want a word with you."
Thus uttered the thick-set passenger, and then Dyke Darrel recognized the man who had boarded the train at the first station outside of St. Louis.
"What is it you want?" demanded the detective shortly.
"THIS!"
With the word, the man lunged forward. Divining his movement, Dyke Darrel sank suddenly to the steps, and his assailant plunged headlong from the train!
It seemed a terrible plunge into eternity. Not for one moment did the detective lose his presence of mind, however. Straightening, he reached up and grasped the bell-cord.
Ere many seconds the train came to a stop.
"Man on the track," said Dyke Darrel when the conductor came hurrying to see what was the trouble.
Lanterns were at once brought into requisition, and men went back to look for the body of the detective's assailant.
No one imagined that he could possibly plunge from the speeding train and escape death. Dyke Darrel moved along confidently expecting to look upon the bruised corpse of the outlaw who had attempted his destruction.
He met with disappointment.
No man was found.
"He must have been a tough one to have jumped the train without receiving a scratch," said a voice in the ear of the detective, as he flashed the rays of a lantern down on the track.
Dyke Darrel glanced at the speaker, a gentleman with enormous red beard, and rather worn silk hat.
This was the detective's first introduction to Professor Ruggles.
"I've no doubt of his being tough," answered Dyke Darrel.
"How did it happen?"
"I think the fellow intended to throw me off the train."
"Goodness! is that so? What was the trouble about?"
"No trouble that I am aware of. I did not know the man."
"Then it's likely he mistook you for some one else."
Dyke Darrel eyed the speaker keenly. There seemed to be nothing suspicious about the Professor, however, and soon after the detective dismissed him from his mind.
"All aboard!" shouted the conductor, a little later, and soon the train was speeding northward at a rapid rate.
Dyke Darrel went into the rear car, and sat down to meditate on his adventure. He realized that his death had been planned by enemies to law and order, and he believed by the ones who were anxious to throw him off the trail of the outlaws who perpetrated the crime on the midnight express a few nights before.
It did not seem possible that the man who had attempted to throw him from the train, and had gone over himself, had escaped unharmed.
Doubtless, though badly hurt, he had managed to drag himself away from the immediate vicinity of the track, where he had remained secreted until the brief search was over.
Since his fall was unexpected, it was not likely that any of the villain's friends were in the vicinity, and so it might be an easy matter to trace the outlaw. Dyke Darrel formed a plan of operation at once, and rose to leave the train at the next stop.
"Do you get off here?"
Dyke Darrel was somewhat surprised to see Harper Elliston on the platform of the little station.
"I stop here," said Dyke. "And you?"
"I thought of going to Chicago."
"Postpone your trip then. I wish to consult with you on a matter of importance."
The tall gentleman hesitated.
The train began to move.
"You must decide quickly," cried the detective.
Elliston walked the length of the narrow platform, with his hand on the car rail, his satchel in the other hand. His hand fell from the rail, and the express swept swiftly away in the darkness.
"Anything to accommodate, Dyke. I had some business of importance to transact in Chicago, but it can wait."
"I am sorry if I put you to extra expense, Harper, but I wish to consult with one whom I can trust. I've got a devilish mean work on hand," said Dyke Darrel in an explanatory tone.
"You know I am always ready to assist you, Dyke. Is it a criminal case?"
"Yes; the last on record."
"The express crime?"
"Yes."
"I mistrusted as much. You have been down the road?"
"To St. Louis!"
"Exactly."
"I took a young offender down who escaped from prison last winter. I think the officers will look after him more closely in the future."
"Who was it?"
"Martin Skidway."
"I don't call to mind the name, now."
Lights in the distance showed that the village contained one public-house at least. So there the two men repaired.
Mr. Elliston quaffed a glass of wine, while the detective would take nothing but a cigar. Repairing to a room, the two men sat and conversed for some time in the most confidential way.
Dyke Darrel gave his friend an account of his adventure on the train, which had induced him to stop off and investigate.
The reader may imagine that it was extremely indiscreet for the detective to give away his plans to Elliston, but Dyke Darrel had known this man for more than a year, had visited him in New York, and found him to be well thought of there, and he had more than once confided in him, to find him as true as steel.
At this time the detective believed Elliston to be the best friend he had in the world. He knew the New Yorker to be a man of great ability and thoroughly acquainted with the world, and more than once he had done a good turn for Darrel. Why then should he not trust him? In fact, Dyke Darrel had noticed the growing interest Mr. Elliston took in his sister, and it pleased him. Looking upon him as almost a brother, it is little wonder that Dyke Darrel took the man from Gotham into his confidence to a considerable extent.
"I think you did the right thing in leaving the train to look after this villain," said Elliston, when he had heard the detective's story; "but you must be aware that you run a great risk in going about the country without disguise, avowedly in search of the perpetrators of the express robbery. Of course, this man has friends, and they will not hesitate to shoot or stab, as they did in the case of the express messenger."
"Certainly—"
"But, my dear Dyke, had I not happened at the station you might have run into a trap. I have reason to believe there are many lawless characters in this neighborhood. It strikes me that the man knew what he was about when he assaulted you at this point on the road."
To this, however, Dyke Darrel did not agree. He believed that the villain who attempted his murder sought the first favorable opportunity for his fell work, regardless of time and place.
Early the next morning the detective and his friend hired a horse and buggy of the hotel proprietor, and set off down the road to the scene of the "accident."
Dyke Darrel was confident that he could find the spot, and, sure enough, he was not far out in his reckoning. When in the vicinity of where he believed the man had left the train, Darrel's quick eye caught sight of a group of men standing under a shed, on the further side of a distant field.
"There is some cause of excitement over yonder," remarked Dyke Darrel, as he drew rein, and pointed with his whip.
"It seems to mean something," admitted Elliston.
"I propose to investigate."
Securing his horse, Dyke Darrel vaulted the fence, and, closely followed by Elliston, made his way across the field.
A dozen men and boys stood about, regarding some object with commiserating glances.
Dyke Darrel pushed his way into the crowd, and was not disappointed in what he saw—a man lying prostrate on some blankets, with white face and blood-stained garments.
"We found him jest off the railroad, in a fence-corner," said one of the countrymen. "He'll never git up an' walk agin."
"Has he said anything?"
This last question was put by Harper Elliston.
"Nary word. He fell off 'n ther train last night, I reckon."
Elliston knelt and felt the man's pulse.
"He lives," said the New Yorker, "but there isn't much life; he cannot last long."
"A little brandy might revive him," said Dyke Darrel. "I would like to have him speak; it is of the utmost importance."
"Indeed it is," cried Elliston. "Where is the flask of brandy you brought from the train, Dyke?"
"In the buggy."
"Send a man for it."
"I will go myself;" and Dyke Darrel set off at a rapid walk across the field. At the same moment the man on the blanket groaned and opened his eyes.
"How do you feel, my man?" questioned Elliston.
"I—I'm used up."
"It looks so."
Elliston bent lower.
"You're going to die, Sam, sure's shooting," he said in a whisper at the ear of the prostrate wretch.
A groan was the only reply.
"Do you hear me, Sam?"
"Yes, I—I hear," was the faint answer.
Placing his lips to the ear of the man, Elliston continued to whisper for some seconds.
Soon the detective returned with a flask of brandy, which he at once placed to the lips of the bruised and helpless wreck. A few sips seemed to revive the man wonderfully.
"Tell me your name, my man," questioned the detective, eagerly.
"Sam Swart."
"Do you realize your condition? You have but a few hours to live, and if you wish to free your mind, we will listen."
Elliston stood at the man's feet, facing him with folded arms, while the kneeling detective addressed himself to the apparently dying man.
"I haven't nothing to tell."
"See here, Mr. Swart, it is better that you tell what you know. Do justice for once, and it may be better with you in the hereafter. You attempted to murder me last night, and I believe you had a hand in the death of Arnold Nicholson and the robbery of the express."
"I—I did, but he coaxed me into it," articulated the poor wretch in a husky voice. Elliston caught the words, and his cheek suddenly blanched. He was outwardly calm, however.
Dyke Darrel bent low to catch the faint words of Swart. It was evident that the man was rapidly sinking, and the detective was terribly anxious to get at the truth.
"Speak!" he cried, hoarsely, "WHO coaxed you to commit this crime?"
"HE did. The boy and—and Nick was with—with me."
"But who was the leader—the instigator of the foul deed?"
Close to the swollen lips of the dying man bent the ear of Dyke Darrel, every nerve on the alert to catch the faint reply.
A name was uttered that caused Dyke Darrel to spring to his feet with a great cry.