“And that means that he has been here to-day.”
“Right again.”
“Then who sailed the schooner for Canada?”
Harper, leaning forward in the dark and straining to catch every syllable of the low-pitched conversation, here gave a low gasp of sheer excitement. There had been moments—hours, even—during the day when the object of this desperate chase had seemed a far-off, imaginary thing beside the real discomforts of the tramp through the pines. But now, in this sombre place, they were plunged into the mystery of the flight, and he had been the unwitting means of deepening the mystery.
“That sort of mixes us up, Beveridge,” said Smiley.
“Never mind.” Beveridge's voice was exultant. “We're hot on the trail now. This taking to the woods is about the neatest thing I ever did.”
“You're right there, Bill,” Wilson chimed in.
Until now Dick had supposed that the land chase had been entirely his own notion, but he said nothing.
“Look here, Bill,”—it was Wilson breaking the silence,—“there isn't any use of our trying to sleep to-night. Let's break out and run this thing down.”
“How are you going to know your way in the middle of the night?”