“Yes.”
“I dreamed about him last night, Dick.”
“Did you?”
“Sure; and it was a bad dream. I thought you and I were walking along a dark street, in a strange city, when that other man came up behind us suddenly. I turned just in time to see him drive a knife into your back, but not in time to check him. You fell! Then I sprang on your murderer and flung him to the ground. I had him by the throat and I dragged him to a corner, where there was a light. When I had pulled him into the light I discovered that he was Chester Arlington.”
“Well, you see how foolish dreams are, Brad. Chet Arlington is at Fardale, thousands of miles away.”
“That’s all right. I don’t opine the chap we saw was Arlington; but somehow I have the idea that he’s an enemy to you, and just as dangerous an enemy as Chet Arlington.”
“If you take stock in dreams, you’ll be calling on fortune tellers, next.”
“Oh, you laugh! You wait and see! That dream meant something.”
Brad relapsed into silence, and Dick went on with his writing.
Ten minutes later they heard the sound of running feet on the stairs and outside their door. The door was burst open, and Dunbar Budthorne, ghastly white and shaking in every limb, reeled in.