“Did you see him?” asked Wainwright, as the hack lurched into Market Street and straightened its course for the ferry.

“Who?”

“Tom Terrill. He was behind that big pillar near the arch there. I saw him just as the old lady spoke to you, but before I catches your eye, he cuts and runs.”

I felt of my revolver at this bit of news, and was consoled to have the touch of it under my hand.

“I didn't see him,” I said. “Keep the child between us, and shoot anybody who tries to stop us or to climb into the hack. I must read my orders.”

“All right, sir,” said Wainwright, making the child comfortable between us.

I tore open the envelope and drew forth the scented paper with its familiar, firm, yet delicate handwriting, and read the words:

“Take the train with your men for Livermore. Await orders at the hotel. Protect the boy at all hazards.”

Inclosed in the sheet were gold-notes to the value of five hundred dollars—a thoughtful detail for which I was grateful at the outset of such an expedition. I thrust the money into my pocket and pondered upon the letter, wondering where Livermore might be. My knowledge of the geography of California was exceedingly scant. I knew that Oakland lay across the bay and that Brooklyn lay close by, a part of Oakland. I remembered a dinner at Sacramento, and knew Los Angeles on the map. Further than this my ideas were of the most hazy character, and Livermore was nowhere to be found in my geographical memory.

I had some thought of questioning Wainwright, who was busy trying to make friends with the child, but reflecting that I might be supposed to know all about it I was silent. Wainwright's efforts to get the child to speak were without success. The little thing might from its size have been five years old, but it was dumb—frightened, as I supposed, by the strangeness of the situation, and would speak no word.

This, then, was the mysterious boy whose fate was linked so closely with my own; about whose body battled the hirelings of Doddridge Knapp and of my unknown employer; for whom murder had been done, and for whom perhaps many now living were to give up their lives.

Who was he? Whence had he come? What interests were bound up in his life? Why was his body the focus of plot and counterplot, and its possession disputed with a fierce earnestness that stopped at no crime? Perhaps, could he be got to talk, the key of the mystery might be put in my hands. Out of the mouth of the babe I might learn the secret that had racked my brain for days and weeks.

And why was he put thus in my charge? What was I to do with him? Whither was I to carry him? I reproached myself that I had not stopped the Unknown to ask more questions, to get more light on the duties that were expected of me. But the hack on a sudden pulled up, and I saw that we were before the long, low, ugly wooden building that sat square across Market Street as the gateway to San Francisco through which the tide of travel must pass to and from the Golden City.

“Look out on both sides, Wainwright,” I cautioned. “You carry the boy and I'll shoot if there's any trouble. See that you keep him safe.”

There were nearly ten minutes before the boat left, but the hurry for tickets, the rush to check baggage, the shouts of hackmen and expressmen, the rattle and confusion of the coming and departing street-cars that centered at the ferry, made us inconspicuous among the throng as we stepped out of the hack.

“Here Fitzhugh, Brown,” I said, catching sight of two of my retainers, “get close about. Have you seen anything—any signs of the enemy?”

“I haven't,” said Fitzhugh, “but Abrams thought he saw Dotty Ferguson over by the Fair Wind saloon there. Said he cut up Clay Street before the rest of us caught sight of him—so maybe Abrams was off his nut.”

“Quite likely,” I admitted as we turned the jutting corner of the building and came under shelter by the ticket office. “But keep a close watch.”

The other four retainers were in the passageway, and I called to the ticket-seller for the tickets to Livermore. By the price I decided that Livermore must be somewhere within fifty miles, and marshaling my troop about the boy, marched into the waiting-room, past the door-keeper, through the sheds, and on to the ferry boat.

I saw no signs of the enemy, and breathed freer as the last belated passenger leaped aboard, the folding gang-plank was raised, and the steamer, with a prolonged blast of the whistle, slid out into the yellow-green waters of the bay.

The morning had dawned pleasant, but the sky was now becoming overcast. The wind came fresh and strong from the south. The white-capped waves were beginning to toss and fret the shallow waters, and the air gave promise of storm. We could see men busy making all things snug on the vessels that swung uneasily to their anchors in the harbor, and tugs were rushing about, puffing noisily over nothing, or here and there towing some vessel to a better position to meet the rising gale. The panorama of the bay, with the smoke-laden city, grim and dark behind, the forest of masts lining its shore, the yellow-green waters, dotted here and there with ships tossing sharply above the white-capped waves that chased each other toward the north, the cloud squadrons flying up in scattered array from the south, and the Alameda hills lying somber and dark under the gray canopy of the eastern sky in front, had a charm that took my mind for the time from the mysterious enterprise that lay before me.

“Keep together, boys,” I cautioned my retainers as I recalled the situation. “Has any one seen signs of the other gang?”

There was a general murmur in the negative.

“Well, Abrams, will you slip around and see if any of them got aboard? There's no such thing as being comfortable until we are sure.”

In the hurry and excitement of preparation and departure, the orders I had given and received, and the work that filled every moment, I had been conscious of the uneasy burden of a task forgotten. I had surely neglected something. Yet for my life I could not see that we lacked anything. I had my seven retainers, the boy was safe with us, I had my purse, we were well-armed, and every man had his ticket to Livermore. But at last the cause of my troubles came to my mind.

“Great Scott!” I thought. “It's Doddridge Knapp. That little engagement in the stock-market is casting its shadow before.”

It seemed likely indeed that the demands of my warring employers would clash here as well as in the conflict over the boy.

Yet with all the vengeful feeling that filled my heart as I looked on the child and called up the memory of my murdered friend, I could but feel a pang of regret at the prospect that Doddridge Knapp's fortune should be placed in hazard through any unfaithfulness of mine. He had trusted me with his plans and his money. And the haunting thought that his fortune was staked on the venture, and that his ruin might follow, with the possible beggary of Luella and Mrs. Knapp, should I fail him at tomorrow's crisis, weighed on my spirits.

My uncomfortable reflections were broken by the clanging engine-bells and the forward movement of the passengers as the steamboat passed into the slip at Long Wharf.

“Stand together, boys,” I cautioned my men. “Keep back of the crowd. Wainwright will take the boy, and the rest of you see that nobody gets near him.”

“All right,” said Wainwright, lifting the child in his arms. “It will take a good man to get him away from me.”

“Where's Abrams?” I asked, noting that only six of my men were at hand.

“You sent him forward,” said Lockhart.

“Not for all day.”

“Well, he hasn't been seen since you told him to find out who's aboard.”

I was a little vexed at the seeming neglect of my retainer, and as we had come down the rear stairs to avoid the crowd and marched through the driveway on the lower deck, I cast a glance into the bar-room with the expectation of finding him engaged in the gentle art of fortifying his courage. But no sign of the missing man met my eye.

“It's no use to wait for him,” I growled. “But the next man that takes French leave had better look somewhere else for a job, for by the great horn spoon, he's no man of mine.”

We marched off the boat in the rear of the crowd, I in no pleasant humor, and the men silent in reflection of my displeasure. And with some difficulty we found seats together in a forward coach. I arranged my men in three seats on one side of the car and two on the other, Wainwright taking the center of the three with the boy, guarded thus front and rear, while I sat opposite and one seat behind, where I could observe any attempt at interference, with Lockhart in front of me. I judged that any one who tried to attack the position would have a lively five minutes on his hands.

The train was the east-bound overland, and it seemed hours before the baggage was taken aboard and the signal given to start. I grew uneasy, but as my watch assured me that only ten minutes had passed when the engine gave the first gentle pull at the train, I suspected that I was losing the gift of patience. The train had not gathered headway before a man bent beside me, and Abrams' voice spoke softly in my ear.

“There are two of 'em aboard.”

“Yes? Where did you find them?” I asked.

“In the stoke hole. I hid behind a bench till every one had gone and saw 'em crawl out. They bribed a fireman or deck-hand or some one to keep 'em under cover. They got off the boat at the last minute, and I sneaked after 'em.”

“And they're on the train?”

“Yes, three cars back,—next to the sleepers. Shall we chuck 'em overboard as soon as we get out of Oakland?”

“Not unless we are attacked,” I returned. “Just sit down by the rear door and give the signal if they come this way. There'll be no trouble if they are only two.”

My precautions were not called to a test, and we reached Livermore at near eleven o'clock, without further incident than a report from Abrams that the spies of the enemy got off the train at every station and watched for our landing. Yet when we stood on the platform of the bare little station at Livermore and saw the yellow cars crawling away on their eastward journey, we looked in vain for the men who had tracked us.

“Fooled, by thunder!” said Fitzhugh with a laugh in which the others joined. “They're off for Sacramento.”

“They'll have to earn their money to find us there,” said Abrams.

The gray day had become grayer, and the wind blew fresh in our faces with the smell of rain heavy upon it, as we sought the hotel. It was a bare country place, yet trees grew by the hotel and there were vines climbing about its side, and it looked as though we might be comfortable for a day, should we have to stay there so long.

“Plenty of room,” said the landlord rubbing his hands.

“Are there any letters here for Henry Wilton?” I inquired, bethinking me that orders might have been sent me already.

“No, sir.”

“Nor telegrams?”

“O Lord, no, sir. We don't have telegrams here unless somebody's dead.”

“You may give me Mr. Wilton's mail if any comes,” I said.

The landlord led the way up the stairs, and beguiled me by informing me what a fine house he had and how hard the times were.

“We wish a large room, you know, where we can be together,” I said, “and sleeping-rooms adjoining.”

“Here's just the place for you,” said the landlord, taking the way to the end of the upper hall and throwing open a double door. “This is the up-stairs parlor, but I can let you have it. There's this large bedroom opening off it,—the corner bedroom, sir,—and this small one here at this side opens into the parlor and the hall. Perhaps you would like this other one, too.”

He seemed ready and anxious to rent us the whole house.

“This is enough for our comfort,” I assured him.

“There'll be a fire here in a minute,” said the landlord, regarding the miserable little stove with an eye of satisfaction that I attributed to its economical proportions.

“This is good enough,” said Lockhart, looking about approvingly at the prim horsehair furniture that gave an awesome dignity to the parlor.

“Beats our quarters below all hollow,” said Fitzhugh. “And no need to have your gun where you can grab it when the first man says boo!”

“Don't get that idea into your head,” said I. “Just be ready for anything that comes. We're not out of the woods yet, by a long way.”

“They've gone on to Sacramento,” laughed Fitzhugh; and the others nodded in sympathy.

“Indeed?” I said. “How many of you could have missed seeing a party of nine get off at a way-station on this line?”

There was silence.

“If there's any one here who thinks he would have missed us when he was set to look for us, just let him speak up,” I continued with good-humored raillery.

“I guess you're right,” said Fitzhugh. “They couldn't well have missed seeing us.”

“Exactly. And they're not off for Sacramento, and not far from Livermore.”

“Well, they're only two,” said Lockhart.

“How long will it take to get a dozen more up here?” I asked.

“There's a train to Niles about noon,” said one of the men. “They could get over from there in an hour or two more by hard riding.”

“The Los Angeles train comes through about dark,” said another.

“I think, gentlemen,” said I politely, “that we'd best look out for our defenses. There's likely to be a stormy evening, I should judge.”

“Well,” growled Wainwright, “we can look out for ourselves as well as the next fellow.”

“If there's bloody crowns going round, the other gang will get its share,” said Fitzhugh. And the men about me nodded.

I was cheered to see that they needed nobody to do their fighting, however advisable it might be to do their thinking by deputy.

“Very good,” I said. “Now I'll just look about the town a bit. You may come with me, if you please, Fitzhugh.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Abrams and Lockhart may go scouting if they like.”

Abrams and Lockhart thought they would like.

“Better keep together,” I continued. “What's the earliest time any one could get here?”

“Two o'clock—if they drove over.”

“I'll be around here by that time. You, Abrams, can look out for the road and see who comes into town.”

“All right, sir,” said Abrams. “There won't anybody get in here without I catch sight of him.”

Lockhart nodded his assent to the boast, and after cautioning the men who were left behind we sallied forth.

The town was a straggling, not unpleasing country place. The business street was depressing with its stores closed and its saloons open. A few loafers hung about the doors of the dram-shops, but the moist breath of the south wind eddying about with its burden of dust and dead leaves made indoors a more comfortable location, and through the blue haze of tobacco smoke we could see men gathered inside. Compared with the dens I had found about my lodgings in the city, the saloons were orderly; but nevertheless they offended my New England sense of the fitness of things. In the city I had scarcely known that there was a Sunday. But here I was reminded, and felt that something was amiss.

In the residence streets I was better pleased. Man had done little, but nature was prodigal to make up for his omissions. The buildings were poor and flimsy, but in the middle of December the flowers bloomed, vines were green, bushes sent forth their leaves, and the beauty of the scene even under the leaden skies and rising gale made it a delight to the eye.

“Not much of a place,” said Fitzhugh, looking disdainfully at the buildings. “Hello! Here's Dick Thatcher. How are you, Dick? It's a year of Sundays that I haven't seen you. This is—er—a friend of mine, Thatcher,—you needn't mention that you've seen us.” And Fitzhugh stumbled painfully over the recollection that we were incognito, and became silent in confusion.

“We needn't be strangers to Mr. Thatcher,” I laughed. “My name is Wilton. Of course you won't mention our business.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Wilton,” said Thatcher, impressed, and shifting the quid of tobacco in his lantern jaws. “Of course not.”

“And you needn't say anything of our being here at all,” I continued. “It might spoil the trade.”

“Mum's the word,” said Thatcher. “I'll not let a soul know till you say 'Let 'er go.' O Lord! I hope the trade goes through. We want a lot more capital here.”

Mr. Thatcher began to scratch his head and to expectorate tobacco-juice copiously, and I suspected he was wondering what the secret might be that he was not to betray. So I made haste to say:

“Is this stable yours?”

“Yes, sir,” said Thatcher eagerly. “I've been running it nigh on two years now.”

“Pretty good business, eh, Dick?” said Fitzhugh, looking critically about.

“Nothin' to brag on,” said Thatcher disparagingly. “You don't make a fortune running a livery stable in these parts—times are too hard.”

And then Mr. Thatcher unbent, and between periods of vigorous mastication at his cud, introduced us to his horses and eagerly explained the advantages that his stable possessed over any other this side of Oakland.

“Very good,” I said. “We may want something in your line later. We can find you here at any time, I suppose.”

“O Lord, yes. I live here days and sleep here nights. But if you want to take a look at the property before it gets a wetting you'll have to be pretty spry.”

My suggestion of a trade had misled the worthy stableman into the impression that I was considering the purchase of real estate.

“I'll see about it,” I said.

“There's a big rain coming on, sure,” he said warningly, as we turned back to the hotel.

It was a little after one o'clock, but as we approached our quarters Lockhart came running toward me.

“What is it?” I asked, as he panted, out of breath.

“There's a special train just come in,” he said; “an engine and one car. It's at the station now.”

“So? Did any of our friends come on it?”

“Abrams has gone down to find out.”

“Come along then,” said I. “We'll see what is to be seen.”

“Don't!” cried Fitzhugh, catching my arm. “They might get you.”

“Nonsense,” said I, shaking off his grasp. “Have your revolver ready, and follow me.”