“Silence him? You bet I’ll silence him--if I have to cut his tongue out.” Nick turned to Cyrus Darling, who had sunk upon the nearest chair, with his head bowed in his hands. What Nick said to the erring man is of minor importance. It is enough to add that he adjusted the matter in the manner suggested; that Cyrus Darling returned home a few days later with a story that Nick had invented for him, and that the real truth was, indeed, never disclosed. THE END. Two convictions on Nick’s part, however, were verified later. One that Cyrus Darling thereafter would be a man. The other, that Nick had not seen the last of Kate Crandall. You will read about the verification of these two convictions in the story that you will find in the next issue of this weekly, No. 123, out January 16th, entitled “Half a Million Ransom; or, Nick Carter and the Needy Nine.” RUBY LIGHT. By BURKE JENKINS. (This interesting story was commenced in No. 120 of NICK CARTER STORIES. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.) CHAPTER VII. A DASH IN THE DARK. I enjoyed that ride into the darkness that was, by now, fast settling over Casco Bay; at least, I relished the first part of it. And it was in momentary forgetfulness of my dislike of my companion that I said cheerfully: “Somethin’ like, eh?” “Uh!” grunted Pawlinson; and I resolved to make no further overtures. Some more minutes elapsed in this dark dash--straight away we were making it, and we flew no lights. Then Pawlinson swirled us to a tangent. “You’re not going past Orr’s Island, then?” I cried; but I might have saved my breath for all the attention he paid me. Perhaps three more minutes it was that we ran thus. Then he whirled on me with a short: “Off!” I was bewildered, for speed had certainly been the desideratum up to now. “Off, I said!” he ripped out vexedly. “_I’m_ giving orders here, remember.” I threw out the switch, and we slumped down to wabbling in the light sea that was running. Even in the gloom I could see his features working. Then I followed his gaze out over the water toward where Peak’s Island showed darker against the night sky. And more showed in that direction than that; for two trim masts were swaying slightly against the starred background. “The schooner!” said I. “Right--for once.” Pawlinson came out of his silence. “And now maybe you can see why I didn’t run right past the island, eh?” “But surely speed boats are plentiful enough nowadays,” I answered. “There couldn’t have been much to arouse suspicion, even if we had shot directly alongside. The lad said it was shortest.” “It’s easy to see you don’t know Carl Stroth. Look!” The steady, bright-eyed glare of a powerful searchlight ate into the night. It came from the schooner’s fore crosstrees. “Get it through your noddle at last?” “Yes,” said I humbly enough.