"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.