Amid the ruins of the carriage they found a man lying ominously still.
“Is it the professor?” whispered Buckhart, fearfully.
Together they dragged away some of the debris, and then Dick struck a match. The mask that had hidden the face of the man was covered with blood and partly torn away. His face was badly cut.
“Luke Durbin!” shouted the boy from Texas, as Merriwell fully removed the bloody mask and held the match with the reflected light flung from the hollow of his hands.
“That’s who it is,” said Dick.
“And I opine he’s cashed in. This was the end of the racket for him.”
Dick struck another match.
“See!” he exclaimed, as the light of this second match fell on Durbin’s mutilated face. “He’s not dead!”
The eyelids of the man fluttered and his eyes opened. A groan came from his lips.
“It’s some rough,” said the Texan; “but you’ve got only yourself to blame for being here.”