“No. Some friends of mine are coming this way, and I wondered whether they had passed,” Nick exclaimed evasively. “They may stop here, perhaps, on their way. I’m tramping through these parts and they have my luggage in their car. It’s a big red one. You could not mistake it.” “They have not been here yet,” said Dugan. “I’ll keep it in mind.” “Oh, it don’t matter much,” Nick replied. “I’ll round them up in the next town. I used to know a man up this way named Beardly. Ever heard of him?” “Not as I remember,” said Dugan, scratching his head. “Beardly?” questioned Morley, still gazing at the detective. “I don’t know any Beardly in these diggings. What’s his front name?” “Andrew,” said Nick, at random. “I never heard of him. Did you, Jim?” Conroy shook his head again, then finished his glass of ale and arose from the table. “Sing out, Dugan, when breakfast is ready,” he requested, a bit gruffly. “I’m going to wash up.” “Hold on, Jim,” put in Morley. “Wait till I get outside of this. I’ll go with you. So long, sir.” The last was addressed to Nick, who responded with a nod, and the two men swaggered from the barroom and disappeared in a narrow, dimly lighted hall adjoining it. Nick listened indifferently to their receding steps. There had been nothing in the conduct of either that seemed to warrant distrust, nor in the looks of either, aside from their rough attire and somewhat dissipated faces. The same was true of Dugan also, and of his decidedly rustic and inferior road house. Nick lingered briefly, apparently to sip his drink, therefore, and incidentally he tipped back in his chair until it touched the window casing. As he did so, glancing out, he made another discovery which most detectives would have overlooked. Beyond a corner of one of the outbuildings, and brought into view by his change of position, he observed an old dwelling and a near building of moderate size some fifty yards upstream and on the opposite bank of the river. A sign on the building caught the detective’s eye. The name on the sign was: “B. Ardley.” CHAPTER VI. NICK’S SHREWD DEDUCTION. Nick Carter read the distant sign with only indifferent interest. “B. Ardley.” Then, like a flash, the phonetic significance of it arose in his mind. He asked himself how it would sound if uttered aloud. “B. Ardley,” he mentally repeated. “By Jove, that is almost like Beardly, if spoken quickly, or heard indistinctly. It must be that Patsy heard it in that way, since he could distinguish nothing more. He may have mistaken this name, B. Ardley, for Beardly. By gracious, it’s worth looking into.” Nick’s face had reflected none of his thoughts. Dugan still was lounging over the bar, waiting the further wishes of his unknown patron. Nick glanced at him and remarked: “This is a fine river, Mr. Dugan, from which a good deal of power must be derived. I see there are a number of mills farther up the stream and nearer the town. Sawmills, aren’t they?”