At length after they had been on the road about a half hour or more, they heard a faint whistle.
“This is the place where the Stalker met the other party,” whispered the pugilist. “I can tell it by the cross-roads.”
Kenyon drew in the horses, and a man emerged from the shadows. He peered into the vehicle and seemed disappointed.
“Excuse me,” said he. “I thought you were some friends of mine.”
“Sort of a lonely place to wait, isn’t it,” asked Kenyon, examining the man keenly.
“It’s not very lively,” returned he, rather surlily. “Going on to Cranberry?”
“Beyond that,” answered Kenyon. He was about to drive on when the man suddenly placed his hand upon the shaft, as though struck by a thought.
“Say,” said he, “did you have anybody walking ahead?”
“No. Why?”
The man ignored the question.