The night had turned colder, or I was chilled by the inaction of the ride. The sky was clearing, and stars were to be seen. By the outline of the hills we had made to the south. The horses steamed and breathed heavily in the keen air. I kept my hand on the revolver that lay in my overcoat pocket, and walked with Dicky on to the porch. It was a common roadside saloon, and at this hour it appeared wholly deserted. Even the dog, without which I knew no roadside saloon could exist, was as silent as its owners. “Here's a go!” said Dicky. “He was to meet us, sure. What time have you got?” I struck a match in a corner and looked at my watch by its flare. “Five minutes to three.” “Whew!” he whispered, “we're regularly done. I thought he had a bad eye when I was bargaining with him.” I wondered if Dicky had a hand in the trick, if trick it should prove to be. “He may be up stairs,” I suggested. Dicky groaned. “It's like advertising with a band wagon to rout 'em out at this time of the night,” he whispered. “The enemy have been along here ahead of us,” I said. “They may have picked him up.” “That's like enough,” said Dicky ruefully. “But if they've got him, we might as well take the back tracks for town and hunt up a sheriff or two, or send for the boys to come over.” “It's too late to do that,” said I decidedly. “We must go on at once.” “Well,” said Dicky dubiously, “I think I know where the fellow would have taken us. I trailed him this afternoon, and I'll lay two to one that I can pick out the right road.” “Is this the third road from Brooklyn?” I asked pointing to the track that led to the left. “I reckon so,” said Dicky. “I haven't kept count, but I recollect only two before it.” “All right. Up with you then!” Dicky obediently mounted to the seat beside the driver. “I shall ride outside,” I said to Mrs. Knapp. “I may be needed.” “I suppose you are right,” she replied with somewhat of protest in her voice, and I closed the door, and climbed up. It was close quarters for three, but at the word the horses, refreshed by the brief rest, rolled the carriage up the road that led to the hills. Half a mile farther we passed a house, and within a quarter of a mile another. “We are on the right road,” was my thought as I compared these in my mind with the crosses on the diagram. About half a mile farther, a small cluster of buildings loomed up, dark and obscure, by the roadside. “This is the place,” I said confidently, motioning the driver to pull up. I remembered that Henry Wilton's map had stopped at the third cross from the parting of the roads. “No, it isn't,” said Dicky eagerly. “It's two or three miles farther on. I trailed the fellow myself to the next house, and that's a good two miles at least.” I had leaped to the ground, and opened the door of the carriage. “We are at the fourth place,” I said. “And the cockeyed barn?” inquired Mrs. Knapp, peering out.