"How far do we have to go?" queried August, after the hack had rattled on for some minutes in silence.

"Eh?"

"How far do we go?"

"How far?"

"Yes," cried the young engineer impatiently, not relishing the apparent obtuseness of the man outlined before him.

"Excuse me," said the man; "I was in a brown study and did not catch on to your remark. If you will please repeat it, I will then try to answer."

"Aren't you the gentleman who sent the note?"

"Certainly."

"Then you must know how far it is to the place where Silas Keene is lying wounded and dying."

"Certainly I do. Mr. Keene is about four miles from your place, at a small cabin in the woods—"

"Indeed! How did he come to be in such a place?"

"He was on somebody's trail."

"You are acquainted with Mr. Keene?"

"Yes."

"Your name is Henry Jones?"

"It is."

"Why did you not come for me in person without writing the letter?"

"That might have been the proper way, but I am not like other people, Mr. Bordine. I am considered a peculiar man. It was a freak of mine, I suppose, that I did not do as you say. Fact is, I did not think it possible for me to leave Keene at the time I wrote the letter."

"You afterward found him better?"

"Slightly, yes."

"Is he badly hurt?"

"He will die."

"In what manner was he injured?"

"He was flung from a horse."

"In the city?"

"No, in the woods while he was in pursuit of a burglar."

"Indeed!"

Then the young engineer fell to thinking deeply. He was not exactly satisfied with the situation of affairs. He was well assured of one thing, however, and that was that something had happened to Silas Keene, and it seemed that the mystery of the detective's disappearance was likely to be revealed this night.

After a time the lights of the city disappeared and the hack rattled on over a country road.

When at length it came to a halt, intense darkness surrounded them.

Mr. Jones rose and opened the door.

The two alighted.

Jones paid the driver for his services, and then the two men stood alone beside the road, with the dying rattle of swift-flying wheels in their ears.

"What now?"

This question fell from the lips of August Bordine as he gazed about him in the darkness.

"This way."

A hand fell to the shoulder of Mr. Jones. "See here," cried the engineer,
"I am not fully satisfied with these proceedings."

"Aren't you?"

"I am not."

"You can return if you like, only it will be hard on the poor man who lays on a rude cot in the shanty over yonder, dying. He said you was his friend."

"An acquaintance only."

"Very well, you can do as you choose about continuing the journey. I have acted in good faith all along."

"How much farther is it?"

"About half a mile."

"Go on, I will follow."

And then the two men moved from the road, following a path into the woods.

August began to suspect something wrong, but he felt that he had gone too far to turn back now, and with his hand on the butt of his trusty revolver, he went forward, resolving to see the adventure through to the end.

Every now and then a bush would brush the face of Bordine, showing that the path was narrow and the wood dense.

Presently a light flashed through the darkness, and soon our two pedestrians found themselves in front of a log cabin, that stood a few yards back from a narrow, brawling creek, whose waters were lashed to foam over rocks and stones.

"This is the place."

Mr. Jones pushed open the door and bade his companion enter.

"Go on; I will follow."

Thus urged, the man walked into a dimly-lighted room, which was almost entirely bare of furniture.

August followed and gazed about the cabin, not a little surprised to find it empty. A light burned on a shelf at one side of the room—a tallow dip—that sputtered and threatened soon to leave the place in total darkness.

The cabin presented no evidence of having been inhabited of late.

One glance about the room, then August regarded his guide for the first time in the light.

He started involuntarily.

He had seen the man before. It was the same person he had seen in the carriage with the woman on the day that he first noticed the placard announcing a reward for the capture of Victoria Vane's murderer.

He had heard him called Mr. Brown.

This fact at once roused the suspicions of the young engineer to fever-heat. He believed now that he was the victim of a deep-laid plot.

With his hand on his revolver, he looked the bearded stranger squarely in the face, and said:

"Mr. Brown, what does this mean?"

But the man addressed thus abruptly was not looking at August. Instead, he gazed beyond, into the depths of the night outside, the door standing open.

There was the sound of a step outside.

Bordine turned quickly.

A stalwart form was framed in the narrow door—the form of Perry Jounce, the tramp!

There was the gleam of a devil in the man's eye, and in his right hand he clinched the haft of a huge knife.

Instantly the young engineer realized that murder was intended.

Self defense is the first law of nature, and Bordine acted upon it with the quickness of lightning. His right hand shot forward, a bright flash followed, and the next instant the burly form of Perry Jounce disappeared from the doorway.

He had fallen, bleeding, to the ground, from the bullet August Bordine sent hurtling into his face.

Before the young engineer could turn, a pair of strong arms encircled his waist, and he was crushed to the floor under the weight of the man calling himself Henry Jones.

Our young engineer had not yet regained his full strength since his hurt in the runaway accident, and taken at a disadvantage, he labored in vain to throw off his antagonist.

"Confound you!" hissed the man in a voice full of intense wrath, "I'll fix you so you won't shoot any more honest men."

He clutched his antagonist by the throat, and attempted to throttle him.

August prevented this, turned suddenly, and hurled his foe backward against the wall.

With a leap like a tiger the engineer came to his feet.

"Hold up!" yelled Jones, whose face was bleeding from scratches received in the scuffle.

Panting from exertion, August leveled his revolver and fired.

His hand was unsteady, and the bullet flew wide of the mark.

At this moment a sound behind him warned Bordine to guard his rear. He turned to see the man he supposed dead once more on his feet, with bloody face and flowing eyes, clutching at the side of the door to steady himself.

The sight startled the young engineer, and deeming it best to seek safety in flight, he turned, dealt the reeling tramp a tremendous blow in the face that swept him from his feet, and dashed swiftly into the blackness of the night.

The man in the shanty sprang swiftly after, anxious now to prevent the escape of his intended victim.

If Bordine escaped them the country would ring with the news of the attempted tragedy. Dashing with the swiftness of a deer, Jones passed over the bulky form of Perry Jounce, and caught the outlines of the fleeing engineer moving directly toward the foaming creek.

He had him now.

With the creek before, and a determined man with a cocked revolver behind, it did not seem possible for the engineer to escape.

"Halt!"

Was Harry Jones anxious to capture his man alive?

Evidently not, yet the call to halt had the effect desired. Bordine came to a momentary pause on the bank of the brawling creek—long enough for his mad pursuer to take aim and fire.

With the flash and report came a loud cry, as of a human being in pain.
Instantly, on firing, Jones darted forward.

He was just in time to see the engineer plunge headlong into the boiling waters of the creek!

"Good by, young chap. I reckon you won't trouble your betters again," cried the elated homicide. "The Alstine fortune shall yet be smine—selah!"