They were at the station near the marsh.
A half hour later found them creeping on hands and knees, making their way from sand dune to sand dune. In his hand Johnny gripped the black automatic he had taken from Knobs.
“One more dune,” he breathed, “then we’ll have to make a break for it.”
As he rose to creep forward again he caught sight of the roof of the black shack.
The next moment, somewhat excited and breathless, they were dashing for the shack.
Once within the shadow of its side they paused to calm their wildly beating hearts. Then gripping his automatic hard, Johnny popped his head up before the window.
“Huh!” he grunted a second later. “I thought it might be that way. Not a soul here.”
The lock on the door was a simple one and they were soon inside.
“It’s the hook-nosed one’s shack all right,” said Johnny. “I’ve seen him wear this long rain-coat.” He took the coat from its hook. “Bring it along as evidence. And these.” He walked to the corner where were four black cylinders standing on end. They were what remained of the pile he had seen there some time before.
Handling them with great care, as if afraid they might explode, he first wrapped them in a piece of paper he had taken from his pocket, then buckled a strap tightly about them.