The three men had become two. One of them had disappeared as another match lighted up the little area only a few yards away.
“Yes, I mean Jed Marmette.” Frank’s keen ears caught the words. He stopped instantly, all his senses even more alert as this name came to him.
Forgotten for the moment was all thought of his errand, his quest for the necessary gasoline to get him back to Columbia.
Not that he was forgetful of the duty owing to his father, of the necessity for getting the stimulant back to the doctor at the hospital. But, his mind having been filled with the things which he had learned on the farm of Jed Marmette, is it at all out of the ordinary for him to have hesitated and to have lost this time in seeking to learn why that name was spoken here, in this lonely spot, at this unseemly hour of the night?
Moreover, was it to be expected that he would now be able to get any help from these people? For if they were using this name, it was almost certain they had something to do with the stolen goods that were in that barn loft.
The next sentence he could not hear, spoken so quietly as it was—and he moved, stealthily, every nerve keenly applied to getting closer unseen and unheard.
“If we get there to-night and load it all in suitcases we can make a getaway before any one is the wiser,” said one of the voices.
A grunt was the only response, and the two stood there smoking in perfect silence while Frank Allen’s ears were turned to catch every sound.
What had become of the third one of the party? And, if they were going to the Marmette place (provided that was where they were talking about going) why were they waiting here?
But that question was very soon answered. It seemed, and Frank often thought of it afterward, that all the Fates combined at this eerie hour of night to help him.