On this side of the bay the wind had fallen, and there were signs of a break in the clouds. The darkness of the hour was dimly broken by the rays from the lines of street-lamps that stretched at intervals on both sides of Broadway, making the gloom of the place and hour even more oppressive. “Tell the captain to wait here for us with fires up,” said Mrs. Knapp. “The carriage should be somewhere around here,” she continued, peering anxiously about as we reached the foot of the wharf. The low buildings by the railroad track were but piles of blackness, and about them I could see nothing. “This way,” said a familiar voice, and a man stepped from the shadow. “Dicky Nahl!” I exclaimed. “Mr. Wilton!” mimicked Dicky. “But it's just as well not to speak so loud. Here you are. I put the hack's lights out just to escape unpleasant remark. We had better be moving, for it's a stiffish drive of six or seven miles. If you'll get in, I'll keep the seat with the driver and tell him the way to go.” Mrs. Knapp entered the carriage, and called to me to follow her. I remembered Mother Borton's warnings and my doubts of Dicky Nahl. “You're certain you know where you are going?” I asked him in an undertone. “No, I'm not,” said Dicky frankly. “I've found a man who says he knows. We are to meet him. We'll get there between three and four o'clock. He won't say another word to anybody but her or you. I guess he knows what he is about.” “Well, keep your eyes open. Meeker's gang is ahead of us. Is the driver reliable?” “Right as a judge,” said Dicky cheerfully, “Now, if you'll get in with madam we won't be wasting time here.” I stepped into the carriage. Dicky Nahl closed the door softly and climbed on the seat by the driver, and in a moment we were rolling up Broadway in the gloomy stillness of the early morning hour. CHAPTER XXIX THE HEART OF THE MYSTERY In the tumult of conflicting thoughts that assailed me as we entered on the last stage of our journey, the idea of the perils that might lie ahead fixed my attention for the moment, and I began to feel alarm for the safety of my companion. “Mrs. Knapp,” I said; “there is no need for you to take this journey. You had better stop in Oakland for the rest of the night.” “I must go,” she replied. “There is danger,” I argued. “You should not expose yourself to the chances of a brush with the enemy. It is a wet, cold ride, and there may be bullets flying at the end of it.” Mrs. Knapp gave a shudder, but she spoke firmly. “I could not rest--I could not stay away. It may be important that I should be there--it will be important if we find the boy. You do not know him. Mr. Nahl does not know him.” “None of my men seems to know him,” I interrupted; “that is, if one may judge by the way they were all taken in on the boy you sent to Livermore.” “I think none of them ever saw his face, though some of them were with Henry Wilton when he first took the boy, and afterward.”