"Put 'er thar, pard."
Nick Brower held out his huge hand and clasped the small white one of the Professor.
"I'll win that thousan' or go beggin' the rest o' my days, Darl Ruggles."
"I hope you may. You'd best take the next train for the Southwest. I won't be far behind."
And then the two separated.
A little later Professor Darlington Ruggles stood on the dock overlooking the river and the shipping. Although yet early in the season the big lake was open, and several vessels laden with lumber had entered the river from various ports on the Eastern shore during the day.
A tug lay on the further side, and a schooner with bare spars loomed up in the moonlight.
"This open sewer has witnessed more thar one crime," mused the Professor. "I would like it if that infernal Dyke Darrel was at the bottom of the river. He has taken into his head to hunt down the men who killed Arnold Nicholson, and if there's a man east of the Mississippi who can ferret out this crime, Dyke Darrel is the one. But I don't mean to permit him to do anything of the kind if I know myself. It's a fight between the detective and as sharp a man as any detective that ever lived. I imagine—hello! who is this?"
The last exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of a dark form coming up over the dock as if from the water. A moment later a man paused within six feet of Professor Ruggles, and penetrated him with a pair of glittering eyes.
"What do you want?"