“Have you the candles, Dick?” asked the Texan.
“Sure,” was the assurance. “But we’ll not use them until we get inside.”
They tried the door, but it was fastened, and after a few moments they decided that it could not be opened from the outside unless the person who attempted it knew how.
“We’ll have to find a window that will let us in,” said Dick, in a whisper.
Fortunately, they had little difficulty about this, for the windows of the mill were broken, and, although they had been boarded up, the boards were torn away from one of them. This window was high, but Dick mounted on Buckhart’s shoulders and crept through it. Then he leaned far out and grasped the hands of the Texan, who followed him, but made more or less noise in scrambling up and over the sill.
“Hush!” warned Dick. “We’ll listen here a while to see if we have disturbed any one.”
The silence within the place was even more oppressive than that of the dark woods outside.
“I sure am afraid we’re on a Tom Fool’s errand, partner,” murmured Buckhart. “I’m almost ready to bet my boots that, besides ourselves, there’s no living thing in this thundering old building.”
“You may be right,” Dick admitted; “but we’ll search it from top to bottom before we quit. I hate to think that, in the face of almost certain death, Luke Durbin lied to me.”
“Mebbe he didn’t lie; mebbe Bunol changed his plan after that runaway and smash-up.”