The night had turned colder, or I was chilled by the inaction of the ride. The sky was clearing, and stars were to be seen. By the outline of the hills we had made to the south. The horses steamed and breathed heavily in the keen air.
I kept my hand on the revolver that lay in my overcoat pocket, and walked with Dicky on to the porch. It was a common roadside saloon, and at this hour it appeared wholly deserted. Even the dog, without which I knew no roadside saloon could exist, was as silent as its owners.
“Here's a go!” said Dicky. “He was to meet us, sure. What time have you got?”
I struck a match in a corner and looked at my watch by its flare.
“Five minutes to three.”
“Whew!” he whispered, “we're regularly done. I thought he had a bad eye when I was bargaining with him.”
I wondered if Dicky had a hand in the trick, if trick it should prove to be.
“He may be up stairs,” I suggested.
Dicky groaned. “It's like advertising with a band wagon to rout 'em out at this time of the night,” he whispered.
“The enemy have been along here ahead of us,” I said. “They may have picked him up.”