In the matter of description the enemy had the advantage, slight as it was.
“Third road—cockeyed barn—iron cow,” and the confused jumble of drunken letters and figures that Henry had written—I could make nothing of these.
“From B—follow 1 1-2 m. Take third road—3 or 5”—this was at least half-intelligible.
Then it came on me like a blow,—was this the mysterious “key” that the Unknown had demanded of me in her letter of this morning? I turned sick at heart at the thought that my ignorance and inattention had put the boy in jeopardy. The enemy had perhaps a clue to the hiding-place that the Unknown did not possess. The desertion of these headquarters swelled my fears. Though Terrill, disabled by wounds, was groaning with pain and rage at Livermore, and the night's arrests at Borton's had reduced the numbers of the band, Darby Meeker was still on the active list. And Doddridge Knapp? He was free now to follow his desperate plot to its end without risking his schemes of fortune. The absence of Meeker, the date of to-day upon the map, suggesting that it had but just come into the hands of the enemy, and the lack of a garrison in the Den, raised the apprehension that fresh mischief was afoot.
I was roused from my reverie of fears by confused shouts from down the hall, and sprang hastily to the door, with the thought that the forces of the enemy were upon us.
“Here he is! they've found him,” cried an excited voice.
“Yes, sir! here he comes!”
It was truly the stalwart guard; but two days had made a sad change in him. With head bound in a bloody rag, and face of a waxy yellow hue, he staggered limply out of one of the rear rooms between Corson and Owens.
“Brace up, me boy! You're worth ten dead men,” said the policeman encouragingly. “That's right! you'll be yourself in a jiffy.”
Barkhouse was soon propped up on the lounge in the guard-room, and with a few sips of whisky and a fresh bandage began to look like a more hopeful case.