When the man-tracker opened his eyes, he found himself in a cozy room, snugly ensconsed on a huge sofa, with the fumes of a hot sling in his nostrils.
"Taste this, Mr. Keene, and you will feel better."
It was August Bordine, with a hot drink for the detective. For a moment the man-hunter could scarcely believe his senses.
He sipped the hot sling, and afterward felt better, so that he sat up and gazed about him. It was the same room he had visited earlier in the evening, but the picture of home comfort was not the same, on account of the absence of the comfortable form and motherly face of Mrs. Bordine, who had retired long since to rest.
Silas Keene's senses were yet in a daze, and his head ached enough to split. He glanced at the pleasant face of the young engineer, then about the room, as if wondering where he was.
"You are puzzled, Mr. Keene."
"Well, I should say so," returned the detective. "I cannot account for it, nohow."
"This is my home, Mr. Keene, and you are welcome to remain here until you choose to depart. I would like for you to make it your home while you remain in the city."
"But," gasped the detective, "how does it come that I am here?"
"I had you brought here in a hack."