“Wait!” suddenly whispered Sam, in a warning tone. “There is a man ahead of us.”
There was no mistaking it, for as they stood stock-still in their tracks, they saw a man’s form occasionally obtruding between them and an electric light that shed its rays from afar off, across the water.
“Do you think he is the detective?” asked Thorpe, in a low voice.
“Wait!” and Sam placed his two hands over his mouth so as to form a hollow, and called out in moderate tones: “Caw! caw!”
It was answered by a single “caw,” low, but seemingly so near that they were startled, and for a moment felt that they were being deceived.
They remained motionless and silent—Sam with his hand grasping the butt of a revolver.
The “caw” was repeated low, but with reassuring effect, for they now discovered that while the sound was apparently near, due to atmospheric conditions, it was in reality fully two hundred feet away.
“Detective Simms,” whispered Sam. “He is waiting for us.”
“Then let’s hurry,” urged his companion.
The words had scarcely left his lips when Thorpe’s boot caught in a vine and down he went, making considerable noise as he stumbled and fell on his hip.