The detective could not return until morning, and they did not wish to remain in the vicinity of the house, so they went off into the woods and found a shooting station on the grounds of one of the great gun clubs, when Murray exclaimed:
“By ginger, lad, I am acquainted with half the members of that gun club, if we can only find their clubhouse. Let’s try; we can get a good bed and a breakfast in the morning.”
It was just a little after midnight when our hero and the detective started to find the gun clubhouse, and they were proceeding along talking in low tones and were in a dense growth of brush and wood on the verge of a lake, when suddenly both were brought to a stand, and paralyzed for a moment by hearing a succession of unearthly yells.
“Great Scott!” cried the detective, “some one is getting murdered.” And he ran forward in the direction whence the piercing screams had come. A little way on he came to an opening where he halted and Ike joined him.
“Look there, lad.”
Ike did look, and just before them across an open space of about a hundred yards was an old farmhouse, as it appeared under the moonlight, for the clouds had rolled away and the moon had come forth. On the porch of the house sat four men, and as Ike and the detective appeared there arose a wild chorus of laughter.
“It’s the clubhouse,” said Detective Murray.
“And one of the men gave the yells,” said Ike.
“Yes, the rascals have been drinking wine, and have been shouting in their wild inebriety.”
Ike stood a moment considering, and finally said in a pensive tone: