There being no cellar, it was necessary for him to proceed to the upper story of the house. The stairs complained and tried to shout a warning, and it must be that their vociferousness caused him to pause several times in the ascent.
But at last the top was reached, and then, as he halted there to survey his surroundings, he distinctly heard a sound that made him crouch with every nerve strained and every separate hair threatening to kick his hat off.
A strange and awesome sound it was, coming from whence he could not tell. A shuddering, nerve-trying sound, like the growl of some fierce wild beast preparing to leap upon its prey.
What could it be? Was it possible the outlaw was guarded by tame lions? Even that thought was not enough to break the iron nerve of Old Ferret, although it must be confessed that it gave his nerve a mighty wrench.
Then he heard it again.
It was a snore!
The tenseness went out of the great detective’s body, his hair permitted his old hat to settle back upon his head, and he straightened up with a deep sigh of relief.
“Well,” he said, “this seems to be about the sleepiest place I ever struck. Everybody is taking a snooze. That’s first-class! I like it.”
But even then, knowing some one was near, it was some time before he could summon his strength to go on. He saw an open door, and, still with his professional panther-tread, he slipped up to it.
The room into which Old Ferret peered was the same one in which Frank Merriwell had caught a glimpse of two men who were sitting at a table and playing cards. The table was there, the men were there; but they were not playing cards. On the table were empty bottles that had once contained moonshine whisky, but which were empty now. Glasses were also there. One man lay sprawled forward on the table, though still seated on a chair. He was sound asleep and snoring. Another man had slipped from his chair and lay beneath the table in a most uncomfortable position, which he did not seem to mind in the least.