After this the silence grew unbearable. “I don't know how you fellows feel,” said Wilson, “but I'm thirsty clear down to my toes. If there's any water around here, I'm going to find it.” He drew a blazing pine knot from the fire and started off. “Look out you don't set the woods afire,” growled Beveridge. For five minutes--long minutes--the three sat there and waited. Then they heard him approaching, and saw his light flickering between the trees. He came into the firelight, and paused, looking from one to another with a curious expression. It almost seemed that he was veiling a smile. “Come this way,” he finally said. And they got up and filed after him. He led them a short fifty yards, and paused. They stood on the edge of a clearing. A few rods away they saw a story-and-a-half farm-house, with a light in the kitchen window. Farther off loomed the outline of a large barn. They stumbled on, and found midway between the two buildings a well with a bucket worked by a crank and chain. They could not speak; they looked at one another and grinned foolishly. Then Beveridge reached for the crank, but Dick caught his arm. “Hold on there, Bill,” he said fervently, drawing a small flask from his hip pocket, “you wouldn't spoil a thirst like this with water?” “You don't mean to say that you've had this in your clothes all along?” said Beveridge. “Yes. I thought from the way things were going we might need it more to-morrow than to-day.” There was a general smacking of lips as the flask went around. Then they paused and looked at the house. “Well,” observed Beveridge, “I'm not sure that I want to be told where we are--but here goes!” And he walked slowly toward the kitchen door, sweeping his eyes about the farmyard and taking in all that could be seen in the darkness. At his knock there was a noise in the kitchen,--the sound of a chair scraping,--and the door was opened a very little way. “How are you?” began the special agent. The farmer, for it was he who blocked the doorway, merely looked suspiciously out. “We're a camping party, Mr.--Mr.--” “Lindquist's my name.” His voice was thin and peevish, a fit voice for such a thin, small man. “--Mr. Lindquist, and we seem to have lost our way. Can you take us in and give us a little something to eat?” “Why, I don't know's I could. How many is there of you?” “Four.” “You say you're campers?” “That's what we are.” “Is your tent near by?” “Blest if we know. If we did, we shouldn't be here.” It was plain to the three of them, standing back in the dark, that Beveridge, for reasons of his own, was moving very cautiously, and equally plain that the little man had some reason for being cautious too. It was hard to think that any honest farmer, living so lonely a life, would be so downright inhospitable. “And you say you want something to