“Madge, you mean?” “Yes. The main reason he took up the offer to go out with you, Smiley, was so he could get up here and see this--what's her name?--Estelle.” “So there is more than a fighting chance that where she is you 'll find him.” “Exactly.” “And that means that he has been here to-day.” “Right again.” “Then who sailed the schooner for Canada?” Harper, leaning forward in the dark and straining to catch every syllable of the low-pitched conversation, here gave a low gasp of sheer excitement. There had been moments--hours, even--during the day when the object of this desperate chase had seemed a far-off, imaginary thing beside the real discomforts of the tramp through the pines. But now, in this sombre place, they were plunged into the mystery of the flight, and he had been the unwitting means of deepening the mystery. “That sort of mixes us up, Beveridge,” said Smiley. “Never mind.” Beveridge's voice was exultant. “We're hot on the trail now. This taking to the woods is about the neatest thing I ever did.” “You're right there, Bill,” Wilson chimed in. Until now Dick had supposed that the land chase had been entirely his own notion, but he said nothing. “Look here, Bill,”--it was Wilson breaking the silence,--“there isn't any use of our trying to sleep to-night. Let's break out and run this thing down.” “How are you going to know your way in the middle of the night?” “Make 'em show us.” “Suppose you can't make them?” “I know--you're still thinking about that boy. But we are no nearer him than we were an hour ago.” “Listen a minute!” They sat motionless. There was no sound; nothing but the heavy stillness of the night. Wilson whispered, “Think you heard something?” “S-sh!” A key turned softly in the lock. Then the door opened a little way, and against the sky they could see a head. Wilson drew his revolver. Beveridge heard the hammer click, and said quietly, “Don't be a fool, Bert. Put that thing back in your pocket.” “Are you's in there?” came a voice from the door. “Yes. Come along.” The door opened wider to admit the owner of the voice, then closed. A moment later a lantern was lighted and held up before the grinning, excited face of the farmer's son. “Come on, Alex. What do you want?” The boy slowly approached until he stood before them; then he set the lantern on the floor, where it cast long shadows. “What is it, my boy?” Axel looked knowingly at them. “Say,” he whispered, “I know what you's are. You're detectives.” “Oh, we are, are we? What makes you think that?” “You're detectives. I know.” “Sit down, and talk it over. Do you smoke?” “Can I smoke? Well, I should say I can. You just watch me.” He accepted a cigar, his first, and lighted it. “Don't let on to Pa, will you? He'd give me--” Unable to call up a strong enough word, the boy concluded with a grin.