IT was between eleven o'clock and midnight when McGlory and his companion returned to Van Deelen's; it was between ten and eleven of this same Thursday night when Axel Lindquist was taken sick on the road, not a long walk from his father's house.
In less than an hour Beveridge and his companions reached a turn in the road and found themselves at the top of the slope,—it was hardly a hill,—with Van Deelen's bridge a little way below them, and the farm-yard beyond. Beveridge extinguished the lantern. “Look there!” Wilson exclaimed.
“Where?”
“At the house yonder. Don't you see there's a light burning?”
“That's a fact. We 'll move a little quietly, boys. Bert, you step around between the house and the barn and keep an eye on the back door. Harper will be with you.”
They started down toward the bridge while Beveridge was speaking. When they had crossed over, Harper stopped.
“Can you wait just a minute? I've got a stone in my shoe.”
“We 'll go ahead. Come on as soon as you can and join Bert out by the barn.” And the three passed on, leaving Pink on a log at the roadside.
Beveridge and Smiley went up to the front door and knocked. There was no response. But for the light in one window, the house might have been deserted. Beveridge knocked again. “Open up in there!” he shouted. But no one answered. Smiley turned and looked around the dim clearing with a shudder. “Lonesome, isn't it?” he said. “What a place to live!”
Beveridge's mind was bent on getting in. “So they won't answer, eh? We 'll see.” He stepped back to the ground, picked up a length of cord-wood, and struck a heavy blow on the door. At this, a head appeared in an upper window.