With gasps of dismay, both dropped their bundles and took to their heels, running as if their very lives depended upon it.
“Thanks,” laughed Dick, picking up the bundles. “Now I’ll find out what you were so anxious to dispose of.”
Returning to the lumber pile, he settled himself on a stick of timber and began to open the bundles, both of which had been tightly rolled and securely tied with cords. The knots bothered Dick, and he felt in vain through the pockets of his unusual clothing in search of a knife.
“Of course I haven’t a knife,” he muttered. “Didn’t think to put my own in a pocket of this suit. I’ll have to untie those knots.”
It was a long and tiresome task, but he finally succeeded with one of the bundles which was untied and spread out on the ground at his feet.
“Clothing of some sort,” he decided, “but it’s too dark to see just what it is. I need a match.”
Once more he searched through his pockets, finally discovering the brimstone end of a broken match.
“This will have to do,” he said, as he carefully struck the match on his trousers leg.
Shading it with his hands, he threw the light upon the clothing outspread before him. It was a masquerade suit of crimson.
“Ah-ha!” muttered Dick. “I think I have seen this rig before. I think it was worn by Satan the night the old warehouse burned, and if I’m not greatly mistaken I recognized the voice of Satan just now.”