“No—is he?”
Dick, overcome with fatigue and emotion, nodded. Henry stopped and turned to the special agent, who was walking close behind.
“You didn't think Dick here was in this business, did you?”
“We 'll discuss that later. Move along, please.”
“But this won't do, Beveridge. Dick has nothing to do with it, nothing whatever.”
“I suppose he didn't know where his schooner went and what he carried aboard her, eh?”
“Oh, I can explain all that. He's all right. I'm the man you want.”
“I 'll talk with you again, Mr. Smiley. We can't stop now.”
They found Wilson in a bad way. Mrs. van Deelen had been doing her utmost during the night for her two patients, but to attempt moving either was out of the question. Beveridge left some money to cover the expense of caring for his subordinate, and Henry good-naturedly contributed toward the care of Estelle. It was arranged that Van Deelen should drive Beveridge and his party back to Spencer's, stopping on the way to send Lindquist or his boy to Hewittson for a doctor. Nothing more could be done here, and so they hurried Van Deelen into hitching up at once. Beveridge could not sleep in comfort until his prisoner should be safe under guard on the revenue cutter.
“There's one thing,” said the special agent to Henry Smiley, as the four haggard men climbed into the wagon that was to take them on the long drive through the forest, “there's one thing I don't understand. Why didn't you fellows pick up a horse at one of these places and drive, instead of footing it,—with a woman along, too?”