At half past six Mr. Cudahy ordered his driving mare hitched to the buggy in which he made the rounds of his yards and plants. At seven o’clock he slipped quietly out of his house, without letting his wife, the servants, or any one but his attorney know his errand. He carried a satchel containing the five bags of gold, which weighed more than one hundred pounds, to the stable, put the precious stuff into the bottom of his vehicle, took up the reins, and set out on his perilous and ill-boding adventure. Mr. Cudahy had not been allowed to leave home without warnings from the police and his attorney. They had told him that he might readily expect to find himself trapped by the kidnappers, who would then hold both him and his son for still higher ransom. So he drove toward the appointed place along the dim, night-hidden roads, with more than ordinary misgiving. Once or twice, after he had proceeded six or seven miles into the blackness of the open prairie, without seeing any signs from the abductors, he came near turning back; but the danger to his son and the thought that the criminals could have no object in sending him on a fruitless expedition, held him to his course. About ten miles out of town, still jogging anxiously along behind his horse, Mr. Cudahy saw a passenger train on one of the two transcontinental lines that converge at that point, coiling away into the infinite blackness, like some vast phosphorescent serpent. The beauty and mystery of the spectacle meant nothing to him, but it served to raise his hopes. No doubt the kidnappers would soon appear now. They had probably chosen this locality, with the swift trains running by, for their rendezvous. Once possessed of the gold, they would catch the next flyer for either coast and be gone out of the reach of local police. Perhaps they would even have the missing boy with them and surrender him as soon as they had been paid the ransom. Thus buoyed and heartened, the father drove on. Suddenly the road entered a cleft between two abrupt hills or butts. A sense of impendency oppressed the lonely driver. He took up a revolver beside him on the seat, clutching it near him, with some protective instinct. At the same moment he turned higher the flame in his red lantern, which swung from the whip socket of his buggy, and peered out into the gulch. Everything was pit-black and grave-silent. He lay back disappointed and spoke to the horse, debating whether to turn back. Once more he decided to go on. The cleft between the two eminences grew narrower. The horse turned a swift sharp corner. Cudahy sat up with startled alertness.