Detective Pendar instantly whisked out of the path, among the undergrowth and under the trees, where he was invisible to one a foot away. He had heard a faint footfall and the sound was repeated more distinctly when some one leaped across the rivulet and came up the gentle declivity. The officer had gone beyond sight of this open space and the point where the stranger must pass him was shrouded in darkness.

The watcher would have willed it otherwise, for it was important that he should gain a glimpse of the other, but time did not permit, since Pendar could not know how far he would have to hurry over the trail in order to reach such a favorable spot. The trunk of the tree beside which he stood was no more motionless than he. The straining vision saw nothing, but the keen sense of hearing located the stranger as clearly as if at high noon. He passed by like one who had no thought of hiding his progress and the soft footsteps speedily died out.

Before they did so, the officer was back in the path and stealing after him. Fear of detection caused the detective to linger farther in the rear than he wished, but if he erred at all, it was wise that it should be on the side of prudence. Because of the fact named, Pendar lost several chances of getting a sight of the man. The pursuer had decided to wait until the cabin was reached.

That was sooner than he expected, for when he thought he was a considerable way from it he came upon the clearing which had been described to him by Harvey Hamilton. One annoying part of the discovery was that he had lingered too long, for the individual passed through the door in the same moment that Pendar recognized his location. That which he saw told nothing of the form that crossed the threshold and was hidden by the closing of the door.

“Well, here I am,” was the thought of our friend, “and I must decide what to do next.”

It might have occurred to any one in his situation, that, inasmuch as he had definitely located the kidnappers, he should hasten back to Chesterton, summon several plucky men whom he had mentally selected two days before, and rush the place, showing scant mercy to the two Italians in town if they ventured to interfere.

But had he discovered the headquarters of the gang?

This question Simmons Pendar asked himself while standing on the edge of the clearing, and staring at the faintly outlined cabin on the other side. Although scarcely a shadow of doubt remained, he felt that that shadow must be removed. He would make further investigation before returning to the hotel.

It was comparatively early in the evening. There were not enough moon-rays to show the face of his watch, but it could not be ten o’clock. A light was burning within the structure, whose interior was hidden by a curtain drawn across each of the two windows,—one on either side of the door. All was silent, and the peering eyes detected no sign of life on the outside.

It was not to be supposed that the abductors of little Grace Hastings would maintain a guard at the cabin itself. Their pickets were at a distance, and unless they gave timely notice of the approach of danger, it would be fatal to the plans of the criminals.

“I wonder whether they keep a dog,” was the thought which held the watcher motionless for a little while; “if they do, he’ll play the mischief with me.”

Could he have been assured that a canine was on watch, the detective would not have dared to go a step nearer the dwelling, but would have made all haste to Chesterton and arranged for his raid, since discovery at this stage of the game would be the end of hope.

“It strikes me that if they have a dog on guard, he ought to have discovered me by this time—Thunderation! there he comes now!”

A canine as large as a wolf came trotting across the clearing, heading directly for Simmons Pendar. It was useless to run, for the terrible brute would have been at his heels in an instant. He laid his hand on his revolver.

“If he attacks, I’ll shoot him and then the fat will be in the fire.”

While the dog was several paces away and after Pendar had drawn his weapon from his hip pocket, he spoke in soothing tones to him. The animal did not bark or growl, but seemed to be pleased by his friendly greeting. He came on, and the man never used his persuasive powers more skilfully. He called him all the pet names he could think of, and when the brute was within reach, reached out and patted his head.

To his pleased astonishment, he completely won the good will of the dog, which wagged his bushy tail so energetically that it swayed his haunches. He whined, snuffed about the man’s knees, and then abruptly raised one of his big paws, which the eavesdropper was instant to seize and shake.

“Bully for you!” exclaimed Pendar in a guarded voice; “I don’t know that your owner would be pleased with your performance, but I’m mighty sure I am.”

He petted him a few minutes longer, when the canine turned about and trotted back to the house. There he scratched upon the door and whined until it was opened from within and he passed out of sight.

“Considered from my point of view,” said the detective grimly, “that dog is a model guardian of a house, but those who expect vigilance from him probably hold a different opinion.”

Nothing could be gained by remaining where he was, for all he could see was the shadowy outline of a tumble-down log cabin and a few scattered outbuildings. It was necessary to gain a look at the interior. The cheap faded curtains at the front windows shut out any view, but he was hopeful of success from the rear. He made a careful circuit of the building, keeping at a goodly distance until he reached a point opposite to that which he had first held. Then he began stealing forward. Before doing so, he noticed that neither of the rear windows possessed anything in the nature of a curtain. He had only to come close to them to see everything in the room where the light was burning.

Now that the dog was out of the way, even with his friendly disposition, the detective felt no apprehension, unless there might be some one on guard—a thing improbable—or a member of the company should draw near from the direction followed by himself.

The yellow rays of a tallow candle, aided by the moonlight, which had partial sway on this side of the cabin, made the task easy for Pendar. He crept steadily forward until under one of the windows, when he rose to his feet, just far enough to peer over the sill. Even before doing so, he was troubled by a misgiving. Something in all this experience was out of keeping with the character of a band of kidnappers.

The detective’s position could not have been more favorable, for the face of no one was turned toward the window, where he might have been discovered. What he saw was this:

Evidently the evening meal had been kept waiting to so late an hour in order to accommodate the last arrival, who was an old man, seated at the head of a plain deal table without cover, and with only several of the plainest dishes of food. Opposite at the farther end, sat the wife, a bulky, gray-haired, slatternly woman, presiding over the teapot and a few of the minor articles of food. The huge dog was sleeping on the floor near the hearth. On the side of the table, with her back toward the wall, sat a little girl, probably five or six years old, eating from a bowl of bread and milk. She was continually chattering, so that her profile was often shown to Pendar, whose heart sank within him upon the first good look at her features.

She was not Grace Hastings. The detective carried a cabinet picture of the stolen child with whose face he was as familiar as with that of his own child. It showed a chubby, comely little girl, with abundant curly hair, almost black. The one before him had straight, scant yellow hair and her face was thin, as if from recent illness. It would be hard to picture two children of tender years so different in appearance.

Something in the looks of the head of the family was familiar, and it took the officer but a few moments to identify him. You will recall Uncle Tommy, the famous local prophet, who told Harvey Hamilton what kind of weather to expect, when he descended at Chesterton. The man was Uncle Tommy and the others were his wife and child, or possibly a grandchild.

Detective Pendar gave utterance to a forceful exclamation, for he was filled with rage and chagrin. He would have made affidavit a few minutes before, and at any time after his talk with the young aviator, that he had located the headquarters of the gang of kidnappers, with the recovery of the stolen child only a question of a few hours.

He had failed utterly. He had reconnoitered the home of a plain, simple-minded inhabitant, who lived in poverty in this cabin, and was as innocent of stealing a child as Harvey Hamilton himself.

A faint hope held Pendar where he was for a brief while longer. It might be that the abductors had made their home in this cabin, whose owner and wife were under their domination and employ. But brief reflection showed the officer that no supposition could be more preposterous. He backed from the window, careless now whether discovered or not, threaded his course to the trail over which he had come with so much care, and started on his return to Chesterton.

“Josh Billings once said it is so easy for a man to be a fool that he can do so without knowing it. The difference in my case is that I know it; I’m mighty glad that none of the boys will ever hear of it.”

Bitter as were his reflections they brightened as he strode over the trail, to the highway leading to the hotel. Something like hope returned to him.

“I have reason to believe that the gang is somewhere in that big stretch of woods. Young Hamilton mistook the building, which can’t be far off. I have learned enough to be sure on that point.”

But there was no escaping the terrifying truth that the time which remained for him to work out any scheme he might formulate was reduced to hours instead of days. If by midnight of the next day he was still confronted by failure, he was pledged to board the westward bound train with his bag containing fifty thousand dollars, and to throw it off at a point that had been so clearly described that there could be no mistaking it.

“It looks as if that is all that’s left,” he muttered in the bitterness of spirit, “it’s an infernal shame, but I see little hope of any other issue.”