"Well, there's no use hunting around for those fellows any longer," said some one. "What with this storm and the dark, we'll never find 'em. I want to get under shelter and have something to eat. It smells as though they had cooked something in that queer auto of theirs."
"They did."
"Well, then I'm going to head for that and get some for myself. Where is Jerkin going to park it?"
"At the castle."
The mention of this name caused Tom to nudge his chum. It was the second time this place had been spoken of. Evidently it was a rendezvous for the gang.
"Well, then it's me for the castle," went on the hungry bandit. "Do you think Barton will be there?"
"Who, Floyd? Why he——"
"Say, will you fellows quit naming names?" snarled out the man who was, evidently, the most cautious of the party.
"Oh, there's nobody around to hear," said one of the two who had spoken the name of the young Chesterport man. "Come on, boys, let's go."
In the darkness, Tom and Ned sought to look one into the face of the other. What did this mean—this mentioning not only of the name of Cunningham but that of Floyd Barton, the rich youth who was so attentive to Mary Nestor? Surely this mystery was deepening!