Diamond had brought Merriwell to that point in order to show him the pretty view of the Potomac River, and not till they had advanced more than two-thirds the distance from the road did they hear the shouted cries of the coach, and see him standing on the bluff. The curiosity of the boys was aroused, and they came forward quietly to see what was taking place. The coach, and the spy in the bushes, were so absorbed in the movements of the crew that neither saw Merriwell and Diamond, and so, without thinking of playing eavesdroppers, the Yale lads heard something that was not intended for their ears. Jack clutched Frank’s arm. “What do you think of that?” he hissed, his dark face growing still darker. “Think,” said Frank, scornfully. “I think that coach should be ducked in the river!” “And I think the spy should be ducked with him!” came fiercely from the lips of the young Virginian. “Look here, Jack!” said Frank, “there is something familiar about that fellow in flannels. I’ve seen him before.” “His voice sounded familiar to me,” nodded Diamond. At this moment, as if he had heard their voices, the coach looked in their direction, and saw them. He gave a violent start, seemed a bit confused, and then cried: “What are you doing there—playing the spy? Don’t you know you have no right there?” In another instant Frank was bounding toward the spot, followed by Jack. “No, we are not spying,” said Merriwell, “but we know a chap that is! Here he is!” Then he pounced on the startled youth in the bushes and dragged him forth, for all of his resistance. “Let me go, hang you!” came from the fellow Frank had exposed. “If you don’t let me go, you will be sorry!” “I’ll let you go when I have shown you to the gentlemen in that boat down there,” declared Frank. “I have dealt with sneaks like you before.” The spy struggled desperately, furious at the thought of exposure and disgrace. “You shall suffer for this!” he grated. Then the coach advanced quickly on Merriwell, speaking in a low tone, although his voice quivered with passion: “Let him go—let him go! If you don’t——” “What then?” said Jack Diamond, placing himself in the path of the treacherous coach. “What do you think you will do about it, my fine fellow?” “I will—— Great Scott! It is Jack Diamond!” The coach staggered from the shock of the discovery, for up to that moment he had been too excited to recognize either of the boys. Now he looked at the other, adding, hoarsely: “And that’s Frank Merriwell! Satan take the luck!” This attracted Frank’s attention, so he turned and took a square look at the coach, in whose appearance he had fancied there was something familiar from the very first. “Great Jove!” he cried. “Rolf Harlow!” The name and the sight of its owner awakened a host of unpleasant memories in Frank’s heart.