CHAPTER XXIII.

THE CABIN IN THE WOODS.

Twilight had come when Harvey Hamilton, with Bohunkus Johnson seated behind him, descended in the same spot in Chesterton that he had used upon his disastrous visit of the night before. A similar crowd greeted him, and he hired several of their number to drag the aeroplane to the primitive hangar in which the wrecked one had been sheltered.

He learned that Paul Mitchell had shipped the engine and other valuable parts to Garden City, while the shattered framework had been piled to one side to serve as kindling wood for the hotel. Thus vanished one aeroplane to be succeeded speedily by another. Harvey announced that he intended to stay until the morrow. He first engaged two reliable men, upon the recommendation of the landlord, to stay by the machine all night, with instructions to challenge any one who approached and to shoot if necessary.

“We’ll likely shoot first and challenge afterward,” remarked one with a grin; “I only hope the same fellow will try his hand on this that splintered t’other one.”

Nine guests were at supper, that being the name of the meal which was served at the close of the day. One of them was Simmons Pendar, who hardly glanced in the direction of Harvey Hamilton seated opposite. The youth made no attempt to catch his eye, though aware that the detective glanced at him several times. When certain the action would be observed, the young aviator committed a breach of decorum by deliberately scratching his head with one hand. While this was not the precise telegram that had been agreed upon the night before, it was sufficiently to the point, and Harvey was confident it had accomplished its purpose.

The two lads lingered at the table after Pendar and most of the others had left the dining hall. Then they strolled outside on the porch, where by that time the full moon was shining in an unclouded sky. The air was so balmy and soft that few lingered indoors. The gas had been lighted in the sitting-room to which Harvey sauntered, and mosquitoes and other insects hovered in the glare. Three men were seated in lounging positions, one smoking a cigarette, while the others nodded as if yielding to drowsiness. Harvey identified two as having been present when the bit of paper was flipped upon the pad he was using for his crude sketches. The three looked like drummers, but a couple were distinctively foreign in appearance. One had a black curled mustache, with eyes and hair of midnight hue, a second was almost as dark, while the third was an unmistakable blond. They appeared to be unacquainted with one another, but Harvey was almost certain that two if not the three were the men who were watching Pendar while he in turn was keeping them under scrutiny. The officer, however, was nowhere to be seen and the youth did not think it prudent to make any search for him.

“I think I’ll go to my room,” he remarked, rising to his feet with a yawn; “we have had a pretty strenuous day and shall want to leave early to-morrow.”

“All right,” grunted Bohunkus; “I feels sorter sleepy myself, and if dese blamed ’skeeters don’t lebe me alone I’ll tumble into bed likewise.”

As Harvey passed out of the door, he carelessly lifted his cap and scratched his head, thus making the full signal previously arranged. He still failed to see the detective and doubted whether he was near.

The youth did not light the gas in his room, though he lacked the pretext of wishing to keep out the insects, since each window was furnished with a screen. He sat down and listened.

Fifteen minutes later, without the slightest preliminary warning, a soft, almost inaudible tap sounded on the door. He drew it noiselessly inward, and recognized the form of Detective Pendar against the soft yellow background. Neither spoke at first. The caller shoved the door shut and with extreme care turned the key. Then he whispered:

“Let’s take the other side of the room.”

Carrying their chairs thither they placed them side by side. Enough illumination came through the transom for them dimly to discern each other.

“You caught on at the table?” remarked Harvey inquiringly.

“Of course; I noticed your signal, too, when you walked out of the sitting-room.”

“Where were you?”

“On the porch, with my eyes on you. I knew you wished to speak with me, but I preferred first to receive your notice.”

“I caught your wink to-day when about to start off with my new machine, but I couldn’t guess what you meant.”

“I meant nothing except to wish you good luck; of course I was aware what you had set out to do and I shall be glad to know what success you met.”

“Far better than I expected; I found the place.”

“You mean where the little girl is held a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

Harvey was surprised that the detective did not show excitement over the news. He remained cool and deliberate and spoke in low-toned words as before.

“Then you saw the child?”

“No, but I sailed over the house.”

“How do you know the child is there?”

“Bohunkus, my colored companion, saw her just after we had passed and waved his cap in reply to her salutation with her handkerchief.”

“Did he see any of the men?”

“No; they kept out of sight, at least so long as we could have seen them.”

“How did your boy describe the girl?”

“He didn’t describe her,” replied Harvey, a bit chagrined over the pointed questions, “except to say she was a little girl.”

“Didn’t tell how she was dressed or how old she appeared to be? The last might have been hard to answer, but he should have noticed her apparel.”

“Probably he did, but I did not think of asking him.”

“It was hardly necessary,” remarked the detective, as if regretting his incisive queries. “Now, if you will be good enough to locate the spot I shall be infinitely obliged.”

Harvey was able to do this with so much accuracy that his friend complimented him.

“You have done remarkably well; if we succeed in restoring the child to her parents, much of the credit will be due you. I know the exact spot and can go to it without trouble.”

“Will you do so?”

“I shall make the effort, but I am in a delicate situation. You noticed those three men in the sitting-room when you were there a little while ago. Two are members of the Black Hand and are acting as scouts.”

“I set down all three as being such.”

“The blond has nothing to do with the others. He is a genuine commercial traveler for a Philadelphia clothing house and will leave to-morrow. It is the others who belong to the worst gang in the country.”

“Do you think they have any suspicion of me?”

Detective Pendar chuckled softly.

“Why should they? You have not given the first cause.”

“But they suspect you?”

“I can say I have reason to hope not; I have behaved so well and sold so much hardware stuff in this town that they ought to believe I am what I pretend to be.”

“What further help can I give you, Mr. Pendar?”

“None, so far as I see at this moment. But you mustn’t minimize your share; the location of the prison is a great and invaluable exploit of itself.”

“What will you next do?”

“It is impossible to say, so much depends upon circumstances as they develop.”

This answer was so vague that it reminded Harvey he was asking questions which he had not the right to ask. The man before him was a professional detective, whose calling required him to be secretive. While such persons often reveal their secrets in stories, they are the last ones in the world to do so in real life.

“I need not remind you,” he continued, “not to drop a hint of these matters to your colored companion.”

“I shall not forget your warning on that point. He means well, but in some respects he is as stupid as a child of five years. What do you think?” asked Harvey with a light laugh, “he asked me to start with him and the aeroplane for Africa to call on his father, Chief Bohunkus Foozleum.”

“He may make the journey yet,” was the remarkable response of the detective.

“Do you think it possible?”

“Not yet, but it isn’t safe to declare anything impossible in our twentieth century. This navigation of the air will make miraculous advancements in the next ten years. Well,” abruptly added the caller, “if the coast is clear, I must bid you good night.”

“When shall I see you again?” asked Harvey.

“Will you return to Chesterton to-morrow?”

“Is it advisable?”

“I see no objection to your doing so. If you do, and I am here, we may signal each other as before. I’ll raise my hat and scratch my head as notice that I wish to have a talk with you in your room, and you will do the same with me if necessary. Please keep your seat.”

Harvey saw the dim figure move across the room like a shadow. Pendar waited two or three minutes with his hand on the knob, as if he had heard something, though the listening youth did not detect the slightest sound. Then the door opened as noiselessly as before and he vanished into the hall, leaving the same dead quiet behind him.

Harvey waited some time before preparing for bed. Then he gave expression to his impatience with himself:

“He got everything I knew about this business from me, and I didn’t worm a single fact from him. I meant to ask his opinion of the wrecking of my machine, how father learned so early of it, what course Pendar means to follow, and lots of other things, but I know no more than before he came into the room. There’s one thing certain, he understands his business through and through, and I don’t know the a-b-c of it.”