"What was it?—WHO was it?" cried Harper Elliston, seizing the arm of Dyke Darrel, and penetrating him with a keen glance.
"It does not matter."
"It does. I have had a suspicion."
"Well?"
"He uttered the name of Harry Bernard."
"How could you guess that?"
"Because I have felt it in my bones," answered the tall New Yorker. "Harry Bernard acted queerly before he left Woodburg the last time, and I have since arrived at the conclusion that he was engaged in some unlawful work."
"Well, I never entertained such a suspicion," was all the detective vouchsafed in reply. Then he glanced at the man on the ground.
"See, the fellow is dying."
It was true. Sam Swart, the miserable outlaw, was swiftly passing away. Half an hour later, when Elliston and the detective returned to their buggy, the would-be murderer of Dyke Darrel lay cold in death under the farmer's shed.
A serious expression pervaded the face of Dyke Darrel, and he scarcely spoke during the drive back to town.
"Did you find your man?" queried the landlord, when our friends returned.
"Yes."
Elliston entered into an explanation, while Dyke Darrel went up to his room and threw himself into a chair in a thoughtful attitude. His brow became corrugated, and it was evident that the detective was enjoying a spell of the deepest perplexity.
"It must be that the fellow's mind wandered," mused Dyke Darrel. "Of course I cannot accept as evidence the ragged, half-conscious utterances of a dying man. He spoke of Nick and the boy. There may be something in that. The boy? Who could that be but Martin Skidway? I've suspected him; he is capable of anything in the criminal line. It may be well for me to go to Chicago and visit Martin's Aunt Scarlet. How that woman hates me, simply because I was the means of breaking up a gang of spurious money makers, of whom old Dan Scarlet was the chief. Well, well, the ways of the world are curious enough. By the way, I haven't sent that line to Nell yet. The girl will feel worried if I don't write."
Then, drawing several postals from his pocket, Dyke Darrel wrote a few lines on one with a pencil, and addressed it to "Miss Nell Darrel, Woodburg."
Just then Elliston entered.
"When does the next train pass, Harper?"
"In twenty minutes. Will you go on it to Chicago?"
"Not to Chicago. I shall stop half a hundred miles this side, or more. I wish to do a little more investigating."
"Don't you accept what the dying Swart said as true?"
"Not wholly."
"Would a dying man be likely to utter a falsehood?"
"I can't say. What is your opinion?"
There was a peculiar look in the eyes of Dyke Darrel, as he put the question.
"I should think there could be no doubt on the subject."
"Indeed; then you consider that the last name that fell from the lips of Sam Swart was that of the man who instigated the wicked crime on the midnight express?"
"Certainly, that is my opinion."
Dyke Darrel drew out a cigar and lit it, his friend refusing to take one.
"I can't feel so sanguine as you seem to, Harper. Will you go on?"
"I shall go to Chicago."
"You do not care to remain with me longer?"
Dyke Darrel regarded his friend closely through a cloud of smoke.
"You forget that I left urgent business to keep you company last night," answered Mr. Elliston, a tinge of rebuke in his voice.
"I do not. You have my hearty thanks for your disinterested kindness, Harper," returned Dyke Darrel. "If the delay has cost you anything—-"
"See here, old chum, don't insult me," cried Elliston, as the detective drew out a well-filled wallet. "I am able and willing to pay my own bills, I hope."
"Certainly. I meant no offense."
"It is time we were on the move, Dyke, if we do not wish to miss the up train."
Dyke Darrel realized the force of his friend's words, and at once made preparations for departure. A little later the two were on board the morning express, speeding Northward. Dyke Darrel informed the conductor of the fate of Sam Swart, the outlaw, but did not intimate that the fellow was a member of the gang of train robbers, whose deed of blood had sent a shudder of horror and indignation throughout the nation.
When the train halted at Black Hollow, the station at which the terrible crime of a few days previous had been discovered, Dyke Darrel arose to go.
"When shall I see you again, Dyke?" questioned Mr. Elliston.
"I am not sure. I shall be in Woodburg next week."
"I will see you there, then."
"Very well."
The detective left the train, and stood alone on the platform of the little station. There were not a dozen houses in sight, and it was not often that the express halted at this place. Here the daring deed of robbers had been discovered. It could not be far from here that the outlaws left the express car, doubtless springing off and escaping in the darkness as the train slowed up to the station.
Not a soul in sight.
Dyke Darrel entered the depot, to see a man standing at the window who had been watching the moving train as it rushed away on its northern course.
"No public house here, sir," said the man, who proved to be the railway agent, in answer to an inquiry from the detective.
"Then I must find some one who will keep me for a short time," returned Dyke Darrel. "I am looking for a location in which to open a gun-shop."
"Guns would sell here, I reckon," said Mr. Bragg. "I guess maybe I can accommodate you with a stopping-place for a day or two."
"Thanks. I will pay you well."
"I'm not a shark," answered the agent. "You see that brown house up yonder, in the edge of that grove?"
"Yes."
"That's my place. I can't go up just now; but you may tell my wife that I sent you, and it will be all right."
Dyke Darrel sauntered down past several dingy-looking dwellings until he came to the house of Mr. Bragg. It was really the most respectable dwelling in the place, which could not have been famous for its fine residences.
The aspect about was not calculated to prepossess one in favor of the country. Somehow, it seemed to the detective that Black Hollow was half a century behind the age. Mrs. Bragg was a shy, ungainly female, and not at all communicative.
Darrel occupied the remainder of the day in exploring the country in the vicinity. A creek crossed the railroad and entered a deep gulch, the sides of which were lined with a dense growth of bushes.
An ill-defined path led down the steep side of the gulch, and was lost to sight in the dense growth at the bottom.
Dyke Darrel followed this path, and soon found himself in a dense wood that seemed to cover a strip of bottom land. Moving on, the deep shadows soon encompassed him on every side.
A solemn stillness seemed to pervade the place, and a feeling of loneliness came over the detective.
"What a splendid place for secreting plunder, or hiding from officers of the law."
It was almost dark ere the detective turned to retrace his steps. The narrow path grew indistinct, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that Dyke Darrel kept his course.
The snapping of a dry twig suddenly startled him.
This sound was followed almost instantly by the whip-like crack of a rifle. A stinging sensation on the cheek, together with the whistle of a deadly bullet, warned Dyke Darrel of a narrow escape.
Instantly the detective drew his revolver and sought shelter behind a tree. Then he gazed sharply in the direction from whence the sound of the rifle had come.
A faint line of smoke in the distance alone met the gaze of Dyke Darrel.
It was evident that some one had fired upon him with murderous intent. This was the belief of the detective.
"Somebody has dogged my steps; there can be no doubt about that," answered Dyke Darrel. "I was not wrong in my supposition that Black Hollow is the rendezvous of a gang of outlaws. I wish I had one good man with me to help hunt these scoundrels down."
The darkness deepened, but no one appeared, and fearing that he would not be able to follow the path if he tarried, Dyke Darrel, with his revolver in hand, ready for use, moved from his shelter, and attempted to make his way out of the labyrinth in which he found himself.
The detective soon lost the path, however, and found himself in a desperate tangle, with the blackness of a dismal night settling down upon the place.
"I'm in a pickle, now, for a fact," muttered Dyke Darrel. "I was a little indiscreet in coming here so late in the day. It does seem as though I must come out somewhere if I continue to strive."
Nevertheless, an hour's walk in the dense undergrowth failed to bring the detective to the bank of Black Hollow, or to any opening. "A veritable trap for the unwary," growled Dyke, as he halted with his back against a tree, with the perspiration oozing from every pore. Even his wiry limbs and muscles were not proof against the tangled nature of the wood into which he had so coolly entered.
Dyke Darrel was not in a pleasant mood as he stood meditating on the situation.
"It looks now as though I was destined to remain in the wood all night."
It was not a pleasing prospect.
The detective was on the point of making one more effort to break through the tangle that encompassed him, when something caught his eye that sent a thrill to his heart.
It was the glimmer of a light.
It did not seem to be far away, and Dyke Darrel resumed his fight with the thickets with renewed courage. In a little time he entered a glade in the woods, to find himself standing in near proximity to a low log cabin, through a narrow window of which a light glimmered.
"Some one lives here, it seems."
Dyke Darrel moved forward cautiously, for he still believed that the wood was the haunt of outlaws, and this very house might be the den where the plunder of many raids was secreted.
Soon the detective stood on a little rise of ground, in such a position that he could peer into the window. The interior of a small, poorly-furnished apartment met his gaze. Beside the glowing embers of a wood fire in a box stove crouched a human figure, seemingly the only occupant of the lone log cabin.
There was a wealth of golden hair flashing in the firelight, and the black robe covered the form of what seemed to be a beautiful woman.
As may be supposed, the detective was surprised at the sight. After a moment of reflection he resolved to enter the cabin.
Striding to the door, he rapped gently. No answer came, and the detective rapped again. This time the door was cautiously opened, and a white face peered out.
"Who's there?"
"A traveler who has lost his way."
"You cannot come in. Sibyl isn't afraid, but she wishes to be alone."
Nevertheless, the woman stood aside and held the door wide. This seemed invitation enough, and the detective at once crossed the floor, and pushed to the door at his back.
The female receded before him, and stood at the far side of the room, with both hands extended, waving them gently up and down.
"Come no nearer, sir; Sibyl would view you from afar. There, stand where you are, and do not move. It may be that you are the one I have been looking for all these years."
The speaker was evidently young, and possessed a weirdly beautiful face, that strangely attracted Dyke Darrel. He stood still and watched her singular movements curiously.
She drew a morocco case from her bosom, opened it, and gazed at something, evidently a picture, long and earnestly. She seemed to be comparing the face of the picture with that of her visitor.
Dyke Darrel was puzzled, and somewhat pleased.
"No, you are not my Hubert; he was a nobler looking gentleman by far."
"Will you permit me to look at the picture, Miss—"
"No, no; I dare not trust it out of my hands. I promised him, you know, and I must not disappoint Hubert, for he is very exacting. Hark!"
The girl secreted her prize, and lifted a warning hand.
"Don't you hear his step? It is Hubert—dear, dear Hubert—come back to comfort his poor Sybil after these long, weary years."
A low, startling laugh fell from her lips at the last. She darted across the floor, and flung the door wide, peering out into the darkness.
A solemn, awful silence followed, then the door was sharply closed, and the queerly acting girl faced Dyke Darrel once more. She looked weirdly beautiful, with a mass of golden hair falling below her taper waist, her face white as the winter's snow, almost too white for the living.
So she stood now; the dancing light from the fire fell full on her countenance, revealing it for the first time plainly to the gaze of the detective.
A low, stunned cry escaped from his lips.
"My God! It is Sibyl Osborne, the Burlington Captain's daughter."
A low laugh fell from the girl's lips.
She began humming a gay tune, and danced across the room with arms outstretched, as though attempting to fly.
The truth came with stunning force—the poor girl was crazy! Her father, a wealthy Burlington real estate broker, had mysteriously disappeared some months before, and it was supposed that he had met with foul play. Despite the efforts of Dyke Darrel and other detectives, no clew had yet been found of the missing man. The detective had met Sibyl at her father's house, and had regarded her as one both beautiful and accomplished. To meet her as now was a terrible revelation indeed.
No wonder Dyke Darrel was stunned.
For some moments he stood in pained silence, watching the antics of the poor unfortunate.
"Hubert will come, Hubert will come," she sung, as she glided back and forth across the floor.
What had caused this awful calamity? Dyke Darrel asked this question in saddened thoughtfulness, as he gazed upon the beautiful wreck before him.
"Tell me that Hubert will come, sir, and then I won't believe that he wrote that cruel letter," cried Sibyl, in a mournful voice, pausing in front of the detective. "I cannot tell you unless you show me the letter," returned Dyke Darrel, resolving to humor her.
Quickly she drew from her bosom a letter and placed it in the detective's hand.
He drew it from the wrapper, hoping to learn something that might give him a clew to the situation.
This is what he read:
"MISS SIBYL OSBORNE: I am sorry to inform you that I cannot see you again. I am off for Europe on my wedding tour. Forget me as soon as possible."H. VANDER."
"Do you think my Hubert could write anything so cruel?" she questioned, as he handed the missive back to her.
"It doesn't seem possible," answered Dyke Darrel.
It was evident to his mind that the girl had become crazed on account of her father's disappearance and the treachery of her lover. The detective's heart beat sympathetically for the poor wronged girl. It was his duty to see the girl safely on her way to the Burlington ere he continued his search for the assassins of Arnold Nicholson. One had already given up his account, but there were others yet to punish.
While Dyke Darrel stood debating what course to pursue, under the remarkable change in circumstances, the mad girl uttered a sudden, sharp cry.
"See! it is Hubert, my Hubert! come at last!"
A look of mad joy sped across the white face, as one slender arm was extended, pointing toward the window. Dyke Barrel followed with his eyes, and then he, too, uttered an involuntary cry.
Glued to the narrow pane was a face that was startling in the intensity of its ghastly pallor, but it was not this that sent an involuntary exclamation to the lips of the railroad detective.
The face at the window was that of his friend, HARPER ELLISTON! His presence here was one of the mysteries of that eventful night.
For some moments Dyke Darrel stared at the face in the window without moving. How came Harper Elliston in the woods at Black Hollow, when he ought to have been in Chicago, according to his expressed intentions of the previous day?
With a sudden, wild scream the crazed Sibyl darted across the floor, and thrust her hands against the window with such violence as to burst the glass, cutting her hands severely in the operation.
"Hubert! Hubert! come at last!" The girl staggered back and sank in a paroxysm to the floor.
It was indeed a startling affair, yet Dyke Darrel did not lose his presence of mind. He hurried to the door and opened it, springing outside quickly.
"Elliston, I want you."
Dyke Darrel stood by the broken window now, but the man he had expected to find was not there. The apparition had vanished as though fleeing into the upper air.
Again the detective called the name of his friend, but without receiving a reply.
Here was a mystery indeed.
Had that face at the window been an optical delusion, after all?
Dyke Darrel was not superstitious, yet in the present case a queer feeling oppressed him, and an awful misgiving entered his mind.
"I cannot believe that the face at the window was other than that of Elliston's; and yet she called him Hubert. It must be that there is a mistake somewhere, and it seems to me that the mad girl is more apt to be deceived than I."
Once more Dyke Darrel returned to the house.
Sibyl Osborne lay in a dead faint on the floor. The detective began chafing her hands at once, and loosened her corsage.
A morocco case fell to the floor.
It was the one containing the alleged picture of Hubert Vander. Under the circumstances Dyke Darrel believed he was justified in examining it.
He opened the case, and was soon gazing at the face of a handsome man.
Although smoothly shaved, the face of the photograph was that of Harper Elliston!
A horrid suspicion now took possession of the detective's brain.
Securing case and photograph on his own person, Dyke Darrel proceeded in his efforts to bring the girl back to life.
He was soon rewarded.
"It was Hubert."
These were the first words uttered by the girl when she opened her eyes. Her hands were stained with blood from cuts made by the glass.
She gazed at the blood, and grew suddenly deathly pale.
"My God! he has tried to murder me!"
Then she came to her feet, flinging her tangled golden hair about wildly, and shrank to the far corner of the room.
"You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Osborne," said Dyke. "I am your friend."
"And Hubert's friend?"
"Yes, Hubert's friend, too."
"Who did this, then?"
She held up her bleeding hands.
He tried to explain, and she seemed to understand partially, so much so as to lose her fear of the detective.
She began to laugh soon, and the late adventure seemed to pass entirely from her mind. Dyke was glad to have it so.
"Will you not lie down and rest?" he said presently. "We have a long journey to go in the morning."
"Where? To Hubert?"
"Yes, to Hubert."
Her great blue eyes regarded him wistfully, and a throb of pain entered his heart at thought of the beautiful girl's misfortune. There was growing in his heart a dangerous feeling, one that boded no good to Harper Elliston, should that man prove to be as he now believed, the Hubert Vander of the mad girl's dreams.
"Take me to Hubert now, kind sir. I know you can do so, and I shall die if he does not keep his word with me. He will never betray a poor girl—such a gentleman, and so good? Yes, I will do anything to please you, for it will bring dear Hubert back."
She went up and laid both hands on the shoulders of the detective, and looked so mournfully into his face as to touch the tenderness in his nature deeply. His heart bled for the girl who had been the victim of a villain's wiles.
"Sit down and rest, Miss Osborne; we will try and find Hubert in the morning."
"You are very kind."
She seemed gentle and subdued now. It was the calm after the storm. Dyke saw that he was not recognized, however, and the madness was not gone from the poor girl's brain.
It was a very sad case, indeed.
Several stools were in the room, and some blankets hung against the further wall, proving that some one had lately occupied the cabin. Undoubtedly it had been used as a hiding-place for outlaws, and it was a question in the mind of the detective as to how soon the cabin would be revisited. The presence of the insane girl necessarily altered his plans somewhat. He could not leave her to perish in the woods.
Removing the blankets from the wall, Dyke Darrel improvised a bed for the poor girl, and induced her to lie thereon. He then replenished the fire with some dry sticks that lay beside the stove, since the night air was chill, and sat himself upon the floor, with his head reclining against the logs. Before doing this, however, he had taken the precaution to secure the only door with a wooden latch that had been made for the purpose.
The window, of course, he was unable to secure.
It did not seem hardly safe to sleep under the circumstances, but Dyke Darrel was very tired, having been without much rest for several nights, and he was on the present occasion extremely drowsy.
Resolving not to fall into a deep slumber, the detective sat with his revolver at his side, and went off into the land of dreams before he was aware of it.
Dyke Darrel slept heavily.
A crackling sound outside did not reach his ear with sufficient force to waken him. A face peered in at the window, dark and sinister, but the sleeping detective heeded it not.
Another face, girded about with bristling red hair, appeared for a moment, and then receded. Dark forms moved about the cabin without, and engaged in a whispered conversation.
Presently the trees and bushes became visible, and there was a smell of burning wood in the air.
"It is well," uttered a voice. "They will both perish like rats in a trap. Dyke Darrel, the famous detective, will never be heard of more, and that girl—well, she will be better dead than living. Come, Nick, let us go!"
"You're sure the door's tightly fastened?" "I fixed it so Satan himself could not open it."
"Good."
"Let us go!"
"Wait. I'd like to see the curse roast."
"No, no; that won't do. We'll come in the day time and look at the bones. This old log hut has had its day, and we could not put it to a better use than to make a mausoleum for the man-tracker of the West."
There was no hesitating after this.
The two men moved swiftly away in the gloom that surrounded the burning cabin.
A choking sensation caused the reclining man in the cabin to stir uneasily.
Presently he opened his eyes.
The room was full of smoke, and red tongues of flame were licking at the logs from every side.
Quickly Dyke Darrel came to his feet. A smell of burning garments filled his nostrils. The bed on which Sibyl Osborne rested was on fire!
"My soul! this is unfortunate," cried the detective. He was equal to the emergency, however. Springing to the side of the still sleeping girl, Dyke lifted her in his arms and strode to the door.
Quickly he slipped the rude bolt and grasped the latch. It refused to yield.
The door was firmly secured on the outside.
For one instant, Dyke Darrel was paralyzed.
It was for a moment only, however. He shook the door furiously, blinded by smoke, and almost strangled by hot air.
The door would not yield.
At this moment, the girl awoke and began to scream. Bits of burning wood fell all about them.
Soon the roof would tumble in with a crash. When that moment came, every living thing must perish within the house.
Dyke Darrel moved to the window, leading Sibyl. She staggered and seemed ready to fall.
"Courage!" he cried, "we will soon be out of this."
Reaching the narrow window, the detective dashed out sash and glass with a stool, and the air from outside seemed like a breath from fairy land.
"You must go first?"
Dyke Darrel assisted his fair companion to the opening. An instant later she had passed outside.
Then something occurred that quite startled the detective and filled him with intense alarm.
A burning log fell from the side of the cabin with a thud that was sickening. A horrible fear at once took possession of Darrel. With a quick bound he gained the opening, and leaped clear of the burning logs to the ground without.
Turning about he uttered a cry of horror.
Sibyl Osborne lay crushed beneath a black log that was yet smoking with heat. With a herculean effort the detective lifted and flung the log from the poor girl's breast, and then he lifted and carried her beyond the reach of flame and heat, and laid her on a little mound beneath a giant tree.
One glance into the mad girl's face satisfied him of the mournful truth. The falling log had done fatal work, and with his hand clasping hers, Dyke Darrel watched the gasps that grew fainter each moment, until the silence and quietude of eternity rested on all.
"Dead!"
With that one word Dyke Darrel started to his feet and gazed about him. There was a flinty gleam in his keen eyes and a fierce grating of white teeth.
It had been a long time since the railroad detective was moved as at that hour, with the work of human fiends before him.
From the burning cabin his gaze returned to the upturned white face of the dead girl. Pure and lovely as a lily looked the face of the wronged and dead.
"It is better so, perhaps," muttered the detective.
Had the girl lived she might never have enjoyed an hour of reason. With that dethroned, what could death be but a welcome messenger. And yet the manner of the mad girl's taking off was shocking in the extreme.
Had Dyke Darrel known the way out, he would have taken the corpse in his arms and hurried from the scene at once. As it was, the detective deemed it wise to remain in the vicinity until morning, when it was likely he would have little trouble in making his way out of the woods!
The remaining hours of the night passed slowly. Dyke Darrel dared not sleep, and so he kept his lonely vigil beside the dead, seated in the shadows, with revolver ready to use at a moment's notice.
No interruption came, however, and when the gray streaks of morning dawned the detective breathed easier. He at once went in search of a road that would lead out of the wood.
He met with better success than he had dared hope. He found a path that must have been used by the owner of the cabin, and which it was evident the mad girl had followed in her wanderings.
How long she had been in the cabin the detective had no means of knowing, but it seemed to him evident that she could have been there but a few hours when discovered by him.
The way out of the Black Hollow woods was long and tedious, but Dyke Darrel proved equal to the task, and when he broke cover and entered upon the open ground above, he was glad to see a team approaching, driven by a farmer.
"Hello! What hev' you got there?" cried the man, in open-eyed amazement, when he halted beside the detective and his burden.
"A lady. She was accidentally killed last night."
"It's awful!"
"I quite agree with you," returned Dyke Darrel; "but if you will take the woman aboard and drive to the house of Mr. Bragg, I will pay you for it."
"Of course I will."
The farmer was garrulous on the way, and it required all the detective's ingenuity to answer his questions promptly, so as not to excite the fellow's suspicions.
The body of the beautiful dead girl was laid in one of Agent Bragg's rooms, and the latter telegraphed to the nearest town of importance for a casket, which arrived at Black Hollow shortly after noon.
"I will attend to shipping it," said Mr. Bragg. "This is a sad case. It is a wonder to me that somebody did not see the girl yesterday."
"Possibly she got off at another station."
"Do you think she came to this vicinity on the cars?"
"Most certainly," answered the detective.
"Will you go to Chicago now?"
"I am not fully decided," returned Dyke Darrel. "At what hour does the train pass?"
"Six-fifty to-night."
"But the down train goes earlier?"
"At four."
"And at Bloomington I can take the cars for Burlington?" "If you so desire."
"I will think about it."
Sauntering along in the afternoon, just in the outskirts of the village, Dyke Darrel came suddenly upon a man standing with his back against a telegraph pole.
"Hello!" ejaculated the detective, as the man turned and faced him.
It was Harper Elliston.
"I thought you were in Chicago," pursued the mystified Dyke. And then he remembered the face he had seen at the window of the cabin in Black Hollow the previous night. The memory brought a harsh expression to his countenance.
"Ah, you are still here, Dyke."
Mr. Elliston smiled and held out his hand.
"I don't understand this," said Dyke Darrel. "You have deceived me in some way, Harper. You were in Black Hollow last night."
"There you are mistaken," assured Mr. Elliston; "I stopped off here on the noon train."
"You did not go to Chicago, then?"
"Yes, I did; but only remained an hour. You see the man I was looking for was not there, but had gone to Burlington, Iowa, and so, remembering that you stopped off here yesterday, I thought I would run down and learn if you had made any discovery."
"You came at noon?"
"Yes."
"Why did not you call for me at Bragg's?"
"Are you stopping there?"
"Certainly. If you had inquired for me of the agent here, you would have certainly found me."
"That's exactly what I did do, and I did not find you; so now," and Mr. Elliston laughed at the perplexed look on the detective's face.
The actions and words of this man were indeed a puzzle to Dyke Darrel.
"Harper, I want to ask you a plain question——"
"And you want a categorical answer, Mr. Darrel," interrupted the New Yorker with a laugh.
"I do."
"Go ahead."
"Weren't you in Black Hollow last night?"
"Certainly not. I was with a friend at least sixty miles away, near Chicago."
"Can you prove this?"
"If necessary, of course; but what in the world is the matter, Dyke? I hope you wouldn't accuse me of deception."
"No. Will you come with me to Bragg's?"
"Certainly."
And then the two men walked away together. There was a solemn expression pervading the face of Dyke Darrel. He had experienced many strange things during his detective life, but this latest phase puzzled him the most.
He could swear that he saw the face of Elliston at the window of the house in the gulch on the previous night, yet the assertion from his friend that he was fifty miles away at the time seemed honest enough.
Having been long in the detective work, Dyke Darrel had grown to be suspicious, and so he was fast losing faith in the good intentions of his New York friend. He had suddenly resolved on a test that he believed would prove effectual in setting all doubts at rest.
Arrived at the Bragg dwelling, the detective conducted Harper Elliston at once to the room where the remains of the beautiful, dead girl lay encoffined.
Dyke Darrel lifted a cloth from the face of the dead, and Harper Elliston stood gazing down upon the features of wronged and murdered Sibyl Osborne.
The detective watched the expression of his companion's countenance closely.
With bated breath the man-hunter glued his gaze upon the face of the man bending over the casket.
"What a sad face, and yet most wonderful in its beauty. Who is she? A daughter of the house?"
Harper turned and regarded Dyke Darrel questioningly, a sympathetic look in his black eyes.
"Do you not know her?"
"Iknow her? You forget that I am a stranger in this part of the West, Dyke."
"She, too, was a stranger here, Elliston. Her home was in Burlington, and she has been brought to this by a villain who ought to pass the remainder of his days behind prison bars, if not conclude them at a rope's end. Do you know Hubert Vander?"
There was a stern ring in the detective's voice, and a look of deep, indignant feeling pervading his face. All the time he kept his gaze riveted on Elliston.
That gentleman stood the ordeal without flinching, however.
"Hubert Vander? The name is a new one to me, Dyke."
"Indeed!"
A sneer curled the lip of the detective.
"What do you mean by that?" questioned Mr. Elliston. "Am I to understand that you connect ME in any way with this girl's death, or that I am a friend to this Hubert Vander of whom you speak?"
"Your pretended indignation will not deceive, Harper Elliston. Look at THIS, and tell me what you think of it," said Dyke Darrel, with the sternness of steel.
The detective laid the photograph he had obtained in the Black Hollow cabin in the hand of Mr. Elliston.
The New Yorker did start then.
He gazed long and constantly at the pictured face.
"What have you to say now, Harper Elliston?" demanded Dyke Darrel, in an awful voice.
"It is a mighty close resemblance," returned the gentleman. "Where did you obtain this, Dyke?"
"From Sibyl Osborne."
"Sibyl Osborne?"
"She who lies before you. If that is not YOUR portrait, and if you are not the man who murdered Captain Osborne and ruined his daughter, then I am out of my senses."
With the words Dyke Darrel presented a cocked revolver at the heart of the cool, smiling villain before him.
The smile left the New Yorker's face, and a serious expression followed it.
"What? You draw a pistol on me, Dyke Darrel? I am surprised," cried Mr. Elliston in an injured tone. "I did not imagine that you could lose confidence in me, let what would happen. Can it be that our friendship was but a brittle cord, after all?"
"I cannot remain friendly when my confidence has been betrayed."
"And you deem me a most hardened scoundrel? Of course you will give me a hearing. You are an upholder of law, and do not approve of lynching. Here, put on the handcuffs, Dyke, and take me to prison. You will be sorry for this some time, but now that circumstances are against me your friendship falls to the ground. I did not expect such treatment. However, I can live through it; but I shall never feel toward you as I have in times past. Put on the irons, Dyke. Why do you hesitate?"
"There is a chance for a mistake, of course," said the detective,
"I am glad you admit that much."
"Is that your photograph?"
"You said it belonged to a young lady!"
"But is it a photograph of your face?"
"It is not."
"You swear it?"
"I do."
"And you were not in Black Hollow, last night?"
"I was not."
"Swear it?
"I swear it."
"You did not know this dead girl?"
Dyke Darrel pointed toward the face in the coffin.
"I did not."
"Will you swear to this also?"
"With my hand on my heart I swear."
The white hand of Mr. Elliston was laid impressively against his bosom.
There was such a look of honest earnestness on the man's face it was impossible to doubt, and Dyke Darrel was forced to forego arresting the New Yorker then and there.
If he was not fully satisfied, he did not permit Elliston to note the fact.
"I did but try you, Harper," Dyke Darrel said with a smile, extending his hand. "You are true as steel and I am glad to find it so. I have endured misery since last night, because I feared, and came to believe otherwise."
"You will trust me as of old?"
"Yes."
"Thanks. Now tell me all about the facts regarding this poor girl."
Dyke Darrel did as requested, although he kept back some things that he did not deem it necessary for Mr. Elliston to know.
"And you saw this Hubert Vander peering into the cabin window—the man who looks like me!"
"I did."
"Well, it's pretty tough, and no mistake, to have a fellow of such villainous character circulating about in this region. I hope I won't be hung for his crime by indignant citizens. I agree with you that this Hubert Vander is a sleek villain, and that hanging is too good for him. It does seem that you made an important discovery last night, however."
"Explain."
"This man Vander no doubt murdered Captain Osborne."
"I am led to think so myself," said Dyke Darrel.
"He also jilted the Captain's daughter, if no worse, and the two sorrows turned the poor girl's brain. It is a sad and terrible case. I feel deeply interested, and hope to see the scoundrel who looks like me brought to justice."
"I am glad to hear you say so."
"Furthermore I have another idea."
"Proceed."
"It is undoubtedly this Vander who planned the robbery of the midnight express. A man who could deceive one so beautiful as this girl, would not hesitate to do anything to feather his own nest."
"Again I agree with you."
"Evidently it was either this man, or friends of his, who fastened the door of the cabin, and fired it with the hope of destroying the detective who was dogging them so closely."
"True, I had thought of that."
"And here's another thing."
"Well?"
"May not this Vander and his friends conclude that the man-hunter perished in the flames, if they fail to see him again? A disguise would fix that easily, you know."
"No, that will not go down."
"Why not?"
"My enemies will visit the ruins of the cabin, and failing to discover skeletons, will learn the truth."
"That does not necessarily follow."
"I think it does. I may act on your suggestion, however," returned Dyke Darrel.
"And put on a disguise?"
"Yes."
"What will it be?"
The detective laughed.
"Don't ask me, Harper," he said. "Of what use a disguise that my friends all understood?"
"Is this because you fear to trust me, after what has happened, Dyke?"
"No; but I prefer to keep my own counsel!"
"And you are right."
"I am glad you admit it."
The friends then left the room.
At the last moment, Dyke Darrel decided on accompanying the remains of Captain Osborne's daughter to Burlington. He realized that it was the proper thing to do. Elliston parted with the detective, telling him that he meant to return to Woodburg for the present, and would meet him there on his return from the Iowa city.
It was a sad duty that led the railroad detective to revisit Burlington, which he had last looked upon in the fall, shortly after Captain Osborne's disappearance.
Arrived in the bustling Western city, Dyke Darrel was met at the depot by a surprise. An officer laid his hand on the detective's shoulder, and said:
"You are my prisoner, young man."
"Eh? Well, now, what is this for?" demanded Dyke Darrel angrily.
"FOR THE MURDER OF CAPTAIN OSBORNE AND HIS DAUGHTER!"
Dyke Darrel felt the cold muzzle of a revolver touch his temple at the last.