“You need not worry over that,” said Wilbur. “He has probably provided for you in his will. You were such a good friend of his. The foul fiend preserve me from such friends.” The banker’s son swallowed a glass of liquor and continued: “You have also robbed me; that is why I waited to see you.” “Robbed you? You lie!” exclaimed Greer, becoming angry. “Had you not broken into the safe, nearly a hundred thousand dollars, which was mine, would now be in my possession and Tom Smith would be alive. You it was who really brought about this murder.” Greer winced, but he soon recovered his usual coolness. “What do I care for you or your money?” he said. Wilbur arose from the table, and, pointing his hand back to his hip pocket, said: “One murder, more or less, won’t count.” Elmer was too quick for him. He had taken out his pistol some minutes before, unperceived, and held it under the table. “Oh, I’ll block that game!” Greer cried, as he pulled the trigger of his self-cocking revolver. The murderer of the broker fell to the floor a corpse; even in death, his hand still grasping his pistol butt. CHAPTER XIII. GONE. Between Little Neck and Great Neck, Long Island, is a small settlement of negroes, who make a living by fishing and doing occasional work for neighboring farmers. At this point Long Island Sound is widest. This was the place where Skip Brodie and Dick Denton took their captive. Dick was well acquainted in this section, having been raised on the north side of the island. “I am afraid to trust those niggers,” said Brodie, when they reached their boat. “The fellow I intend to go to is all right,” replied Dick; “and there is no danger of others seeing us, because he lives in the woods, half a mile back of the settlement. I will go and bring him here.” Denton had not been gone long when he returned with a gigantic colored man, whom he introduced to his pal as Sam Cole. It was dark, and Skip could not make out the fellow’s features. Sam led them, by a roundabout way, to his hut, a miserable affair, not suitable for cattle, much less for human beings. Hilton Field followed in silence; indeed, he had not once opened his mouth to speak since leaving the house of his inhuman son. “You are hungry, I suppose?” the negro said, stirring up the fire. “I can give you some eels; how will they do?” “Anything will do, Sam,” replied Denton. “Got anything to drink?” Cole answered by placing a large, black bottle and several glasses on a rickety table that occupied nearly half the cabin. Dick filled out a glass for the prisoner, and Mr. Field, who was chilled to the marrow, drank the stuff, although it was of the vilest. After supper Denton and the negro went outside, and when they returned Sam carried a small ladder, which he placed at an opening in the ceiling. “Climb up, old man,” said Dick, pushing the banker toward the ladder.