“All right,” he muttered. “You know best, partner. I opine I’d better trust the whole thing to you.”
“Give me that whisky, Mr. Swinton,” requested Dick.
The liquor had been weakened with water in a cup, and the boy again held this out to Durbin’s lips. A little of the stuff passed into the man’s mouth, and he swallowed it with great difficulty.
“Now,” once more urged Dick, “try to tell me where they have taken Professor Gunn.”
The man’s lips moved again. Dick bent low over him, holding his ear down to listen, but he could catch no word, and the fear that Durbin would die without speaking grew upon him.
Looking straight into the pathetic eyes of the injured man, Dick said, in a tone of confidence and command:
“I will give you the power to speak. You shall speak! You can speak! Tell me at once where they have taken the professor.”
For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. Both Buckhart and Swinton watched, breathless and awed, feeling that in some singular manner the boy was transmitting some strength of his own to the man on the bed. They felt as if something like a miracle was about to take place.
Finally Durbin’s lips parted again, and, in a low yet perfectly distinct tone, he muttered three words:
“The—haunted—mill!”