"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.