A PLUNGE TO DEATH.
For some moments neither man spoke. Harry Bernard noticed that his
friend was deeply moved, and he seemed to wonder at the cause. At
length he said:
"Dyke, what is it?"
"Nothing, only---"
"Well, speak out," as the detective hesitated.
"It is strange that your hand should so exactly fit the marks on the
handkerchief, Harry."
"Well, yes," admitted the youth; "I hope you didn't imagine, however,
that _I_ had a hand in this railway robbery and murder?"
At the last Harry Bernard laughed lightly. Dyke Darrel did not seem to
relish the young fellow's lightness, and only frowned.
"This is not a laughing matter, Harry Bernard," said the detective,
sternly.
"Well I should say not. If you have a serious thought that I could do
such a deed, Dyke, place me under arrest at once."
There was an expression of rebuke on the face of Bernard as he uttered
the last words. He did not look like a criminal, that was certain, and
after a moment Dyke Darrel felt ashamed of his suspicions.
"Never mind, Harry, I could not help feeling shocked. Let it pass; I
will not wrong you by suspicion. But you will admit that it was a
strange thing, your hand fitting so perfectly."
"Not at all. Put your own hand here," returned Bernard.
Dyke Darrel did so, but it was not so near a fit as Harry's. It was
not the size of the hand, but the imprint of the wart that had so
startled the detective. Harry had not discovered the true cause of his
friend's excitement, and the detective concluded to say nothing about
it then.
Time was flying. The midnight express would soon leave the city.
"I cannot remain with you longer," said Dyke Darrel, at length. "I
shall leave the case at this end of the route in your hands, Harry,
and if at any time you wish to communicate with me, address me at
Woodburg."
"All right. What shall we do with this?"
Harry indicated the coat that still lay on the bed.
"You may retain that, but I will keep the handkerchief. Both may be of
use in the future."
Soon after the two men separated.
Dyke Darrel went at once to the depot, and soon after nine that
evening he was speeding northward at the rate of forty miles an hour.
At the first stop outside of the city three passengers boarded the
train. One was a short, thick-set man, with beard and hair of a dark
color; the others were women. The man entered the smoking car and
thrust himself into an unoccupied seat, and glanced keenly about him.
The man had no ticket, but paid the conductor to a station a hundred
miles from the city.
While sitting with his back to the aisle, a touch on the shoulder
roused him.
"Eh, it's you, Ruggles?"
"Ahem--seat occupied?"
"No."
The man we have met on a previous occasion, Professor Darlington
Ruggles, settled himself beside the late comer.
"Ahem--fine evening."
A grunt answered the Professor's attempt to be sociable. At length,
after casting a keen glance about the car, to find that but few
passengers were present, and those of but little consequence,
Professor Ruggles said:
"He's in the next car."
"Yes. I'd like to get my clutches onto him agin."
"You had him once?"
"Yes, but he had help, and escaped. Do you imagine he's on the trail?"
"Certainly," answered Professor Ruggles.
"Then he'll get off to-night."
"I hope so; but you must be cautious."
"Trust me for that."
"Have you formulated a plan?"
"None."
"Then let me help you."
"I'll be glad to do so."
"If we can get the fellow onto the platform the work will be easy. You
understand, Sam?"
"I reckon."
"Once he goes over nothing can save him."
"True, but how will we git the cuss outside?"
"Easy's preaching. I'll go and introduce myself and get him to wait
this car to try an excellent brand of cigars--see?" And the Professor
chuckled audibly.
"I expect it's easier said than done," returned the thickset villain.
"Twixt you 'n me, Ruggles, Dyke Darrel's cut his eye teeth, an' he
don't walk into no traps with his eyes open, I can tell you that."
"Well, we'll see about it. I flatter myself that I'm sharper than any
detective that ever lived."
Then, adjusting his glasses, the sunset-haired Professor left his seat
and walked down the aisle to the door. He came hurrying back with an
interested, perhaps anxious look on his countenance.
"Now's your time, Sam," whispered Professor Ruggles; "the fellow's on
the platform smoking!"
This was fully two hours after the thickset man first stepped upon the
train. He at once came to his feet, and sauntered in a careless manner
to the door. The night was not dark, and the man could plainly see a
dark form leaning against the end of the opposite car, a bright red
gleam showing the end of his cigar.
It was indeed Dyke Darrel, who had come out upon the platform to cool
his heated brow and reflect on the situation, while he smoked a cigar
for its soothing influence.
He could not drive the thought of Harry Bernard and the train robbery
from his mind. He remembered that the young man had left Woodburg
suddenly the fall before, and nothing had been seen or heard from him
by his friends since, until Dyke's meeting him so strangely in St.
Louis. It was barely possible that the assault and the rescue by young
Bernard were part of a deep-laid plot. Dyke Darrel possessed a
suspicious mind, and he could not reconcile appearances with the
innocence of young Harry Bernard.
Deeply meditating, the detective scarcely noticed the opening of the
car door opposite his position. His gaze, however, soon met the form
of a man as he stepped across the narrow opening between the coaches.
The detective was instantly on the alert. He was not to be caught
napping, as he had been once before that night.
The moment the stranger passed to his platform, Dyke Darrel faced him
with a drawn revolver in his hand.
"Mr., I want a word with you."
Thus uttered the thick-set passenger, and then Dyke Darrel recognized
the man who had boarded the train at the first station outside of St.
Louis.
"What is it you want?" demanded the detective shortly.
"THIS!"
With the word, the man lunged forward. Divining his movement, Dyke
Darrel sank suddenly to the steps, and his assailant plunged headlong
from the train!