A crackling sound outside did not reach his ear with sufficient force to waken him. A face peered in at the window, dark and sinister, but the sleeping detective heeded it not.
Another face, girded about with bristling red hair, appeared for a moment, and then receded. Dark forms moved about the cabin without, and engaged in a whispered conversation.
Presently the trees and bushes became visible, and there was a smell of burning wood in the air.
"It is well," uttered a voice. "They will both perish like rats in a trap. Dyke Darrel, the famous detective, will never be heard of more, and that girl—well, she will be better dead than living. Come, Nick, let us go!"
"You're sure the door's tightly fastened?" "I fixed it so Satan himself could not open it."
"Good."
"Let us go!"
"Wait. I'd like to see the curse roast."
"No, no; that won't do. We'll come in the day time and look at the bones. This old log hut has had its day, and we could not put it to a better use than to make a mausoleum for the man-tracker of the West."
There was no hesitating after this.