“The smugglers?” ejaculated Fredrich Weimher, springing eagerly to his feet. “Ah! I know where their den is, and we will organize a party at once, and go to the rescue of my friend and his bride.” “But how will you enter their den, as you call it? That is a secret which but very few even of their own band is possessed of.” “How do you know?” demanded Fredrich Weimher, regarding the man searchingly. “Because I am one of them,” he replied, boldly meeting his glance. “You!” “Yes, I!” “Then you are, after all, an enemy to those whom I would serve,” returned Fredrich, sternly. The strange man smiled, and Fredrich Weimher, fearing that he had been willfully duped, said sharply: “Do you mean me to understand that you are in league against these people?” “To that question I can answer both yes and no,” he calmly returned. “I am a friend, and yet I am an enemy.” “Explain yourself.” “I will; listen. I have followed these Moultons everywhere for a long time, for I know what their aim has been. I have watched every footstep since they came here, but in a complete and safe disguise. Look!” He opened the drawer in the table before which they sat, and, taking out a wig and heavy pair of whiskers, put them on. “Ah! I should never know you for the same man,” exclaimed Fredrich, in surprise; then asked, “But why is this disguise necessary? Do they know you?” “Because,” he answered, as he removed the wig and whiskers and replaced them in the drawer, “I have been a sort of ally of the squire’s in my present character, and am therefore in the secret of what he is up to.” “My friend, if I indeed can call you so, you surprise me more and more; you are a mystery, and I scarcely know whether to call you friend or foe,” said Weimher, with a troubled look. “I will soon convince you with regard to that,” returned Edgerton, with a peculiar smile. “I have told you that I am one of the smugglers’ band, and I will now explain how it happens. Some few years ago, while I was in the United States, I came across a couple of fellows—I call them fellows, because they appeared to be rough, rude men when I first saw them, though they had known better days. They were sons of an Italian nobleman, and were on the track of this very self-same squire. Ah! I tell you he has been a wicked one in his day,” said the man, with a gleam of hate in his eye. “I believe you; but go on,” returned Fredrich, earnestly.