“If he gets out of the train with us,” he thought, “I shall know what it means.”
The train slackened its speed, the sound of the whistle was heard, the brakes were applied, and soon the conductor, putting his head in at the door, called out “Oakland!”
“Here we are,” said Herbert. “Give me your hand, Mr. Carroll, and I will lead you out.”
The old gentleman rose from his seat, and, guided by Herbert, walked to the car door. At the door Herbert turned and looked back.
The man with the black whiskers, who a moment before seemed absorbed in a newspaper, had left his seat, and was but a few feet behind him.
Herbert did not believe that this was an accident. He felt sure that it meant mischief. But he did not on that account feel nervous, or regret that he had assumed a charge which seemed likely to expose him to peril. He had the pistol in his pocket, and that he knew would make him even with the rascal who was following them.
There was a covered carriage waiting outside to convey passengers to the only hotel which the village afforded.
“Shall we take the carriage, Mr. Carroll?” asked Herbert.
“Yes,” was the reply.
Herbert assisted him in, and placed himself in a seat opposite.