In silent wonder the three in the car obeyed the order so gently given, but so imperatively attuned. Without misgiving, but trembling from the multitude of questions rushing to his mind, Way followed Mr. Rack. Walking upright, but without noise, the two approached the dark and lonely farmhouse.
Stationing Way behind the trunk of an old apple tree, Mr. Rack left him. For a quarter of an hour he was absent. Vastly to Phil’s surprise he came creeping on hands and knees and was fairly beside the boy ere the latter discovered him.
“We are too late, or too early. It will take some time——”
A terrific scream burst suddenly on the air. Coming in unexpected violence, and from within the old house, the sound was terrifying beyond description.
“Don’t forget the signal!” said Robert Rack calmly.
“Close in,” Phil whispered, to show he remembered, but the detective was gone.
The seconds seemed like hours to Philip Way and no less so to the three in the car who had heard the frightful scream.
Suddenly there came a wild cry, like violent, threatening anger, like the howl of a wolf at bay. And then——
“Close in!” It was the voice of Bob Rack, and what a contrast with the other! It might have been a father calling a son to breakfast, so cool, collected, calm it was.
Instantly Way rushed forward through the dark. Close in! Yes, but where? How? Soon he found himself groping for the door at the side porch. A feeble light shone from the kitchen. With a crash the door was suddenly flung open. A heavy figure leaped forth. Phil threw himself forward, arms outstretched, just as many a time he had tackled on the gridiron, and the heavy body went tumbling to the ground beside the doorstep, Way with it, but keeping the uppermost position.