“You think what he did was to take to the road back up there and set the boat adrift?” asked Pink. “Of course.” The words came from the deeper water, where the special agent was already swimming back. A moment more and Dick and Pink were after him. “Now, Mister van Deelen,” said Beveridge, when they had gathered together, “take us to the road.” “It's right back up-stream. You know where it is as well as I do.” “Can't we strike right over through the woods?” “Why, yes, you could do--” “All right, Dick. It 'll be lighter when we get up out of this hole.” They floundered through a hundred yards of undergrowth and finally came upon the open road. They were a dismal enough party. The water in their shoes gurgled when they moved and spurted out at the lacings in little streams. Other streams ran down their clothing to the road, where the sand drank them up. Beveridge was without coat or collar, and the others were nearly as dilapidated. The physical strain of the chase, and the loss of sleep, not to speak of Beveridge's fight with McGlory, had worn them down nearly to the point at which nature asserts her peremptory claims,--but not one of them knew it. They did not know that they were a desperate spectacle in the eyes of the bewildered farmer; even if they could have stood in the light of day and looked full at one another, it is to be doubted if any of the three would have observed the deep-lined, white faces, the ringed eyes, of the other two. For the spirit of the chase was in them. “Now, Mister Van,” said Beveridge, almost gayly, “how far is it to the next house?” “Why--why--” “Don't think too fast. A man died that way once.” “There's an empty house about a mile from here.” “All right, we 'll make for that. I want you, Van Deelen, to hitch up a wagon and come on after us as quick as you can.” The farmer turned at once and walked rapidly up the road. “Spencer hasn't much start of us,” said Beveridge, as the three men started in the opposite direction. “He couldn't have. It took him a good while to work down here in that boat. We 'll get him if he keeps the road.” “He 'll have to do that. If he took to the woods, he would be lost in an hour--and that means starvation.” Pink ventured a pleasantry, “Maybe he's got a compass,” of which the special agent took not the slightest notice; but said, turning to Smiley, “How are your legs, Dick?” “Fine. Trim as they make them.” “Feel up to a dog trot?” “Half a dollar even, I 'll beat you to the deserted house.” “Hold on, don't get to sprinting. Save your wind. An easy jog will do it.” All three fell at once into an easy running gait, Smiley and Beveridge side by side, Pink laboring along in the rear. Five minutes later Beveridge paused for breath. “We must have run nearly a mile by this time, boys.” “Easily.” “Not so loud. Doesn't it look to you as if the road turned--up ahead there?”