The detective had just completed his change in appearance,
when he was startled by hearing a shrill piercing scream in a
female voice from the direction of Tom Pearce's cabin.
"As I feared!" he muttered, and he walked rapidly toward the
cabin, and approaching, he saw an excited group of men
standing outside, while something of a more ordinary character
appeared to be transpiring beneath the humble roof.
The detective approached the group of men standing outside and
inquired:
"Hello, what's going on here?"
The men crowded around the new-comer, and glared in his face,
and one of the men called out,
"Ahoy there, bring a glim here, quick! Here's stranger, and
by all that's fatal, I believe Tom's enemy!"
The detective was perfectly cool as he answered;
"Will you tell me what's going on here."
"Who are you, anyhow?" came the query in a rough tone.
Meantime one of the men had brought out a ship's lantern, and
it was held up in front of the detective's face, and the men
glared at him.
"Do any of you know this fellow?" came the question.
One man after another declared his utter ignorance of the
identity of the stranger.
"Who are you, my man?" again came the question;
"My name is Ballard, but I reckon no one around here knows
me."
"I reckon you're right, you villain! and now what brings you
here?"
"I came here to see a woman named Betsy Pearce."
"You came here to see a woman named Betsy Pearce?"
"Yes."
"What brought you here to see Betsy Pearce?"
"That's my business."
"You've been here before, to-night, old man!"
"Who says so?"
"We all do."
"Then you are all mistaken!"
"We are, eh? Well, my friend, it stands you in hand to give
an account of yourself, and explain your presence here, or
to-morrow's sun will never rise before your eyes!"
"Will you men explain why I am assailed this way?"
"My friend, Tom Pearce, has been found in his cabin
unconscious!"
The detective gave a start, and a shudder passed over his
stalwart frame. The start and shudder were the result of far
different causes than the men around him supposed, but they
noticed his momentary agitation, and one of them exclaimed:
"We've got the right man! And now, boys, get a rope; there'll
be no foolin' in this case!"
Meantime one of the men entered the cabin and whispered to
Renie, who was weeping over the body of her murdered father.
"They've caught the rascal, miss, and they're going to hang
him!"
The girl uttered a scream, a wild piercing wail of anguish and
terror! At that terrible moment it flashed across her mind
that the men had caught Spencer Vance, and had concluded that
the detective was the assailant of her father.
The girl rushed from the cabin screaming:
"Hold! Hold! do not harm that man! He is innocent! Hold!
Hold, I say!"
The girl advanced to the center of the group of men that
surrounded the detective, still exclaiming:
"Do not harm that man! he is innocent! He is innocent!"
She approached close to the prisoner; one of the men held the
the lantern so its gleam shone full in the detective's face,
and he inquired:
"Do you know him, Renie?"
The girl fixed her eyes on the prisoner and recoiling,
exclaimed:
"No, no, I do not know him! I thought it was another man! He
must be the one!"
As the excited girl spoke she pointed toward the detective.
The latter still stood, the coolest party amidst all there
assembled.
Renie had taken but a cursory glance at the prisoner. One
glance had been sufficient to prove to her that it was not the
detective, and observing the man's swarthy complexion she
connected him with the Cuban Garcia, and it was the latter
fact which in the excitement of the moment caused her to
exclaim,
"He must be the one!"
As stated, the detective was perfectly cool, but he realized
his position in all its terribleness, and more fully, when one
of the men said:
"Now, then, stranger, give an account of yourself."
"I tell you I came here to see Betsy Pearce."
"You were not at this cabin before to-night."
"I was not."
"Where do you hail from?"
"That's my business."
"That means you won't tell."
"Yes."
"You may be sorry anon, good man; and now answer! What was
your business with Betsy Pearce?"
"I will not answer."
"You had no business with Tom Pearce?"
"I did not."
"Stranger, your story don't work. Betsy Pearce has been dead
and in her grave these two years."
"I know that!"
"Ah, you knew it?"
"Yes, I learned so since my arrival on the coast."
Renie had returned to the interior of the cabin, and one of
the men said:
"Is the rope ready?"
"Yes," came the answer.
"Do you hear that, stranger?"
"I do."
"Rig a swing cross, boys. We'll fix this fellow, and teach
all comers that this is the wrong coast for such scoundrels!"
The detective fully realized the men were in earnest, and
that, unless some fortunate accident intervened. It would
indeed be an "up you go" with him.
It would be hard to conceive a more embarrassing and critical
position. The detective could not appeal to Renie openly as
the appeal would reveal his real identity; and no opportunity
appeared for a quiet revelation of himself to the girl.
He was led to the place of execution; the rope was thrown over
his head, when Renie came forth from the cabin. She ran
forward to where the victim stood.
"Hold! Hold!" she said, "what are you about to do?"
"Hang your father's assailant!"
"Does the man confess his guilt?"
"No."
"Let me speak to him."
The girl pressed forward close to the doomed man, and
addressing him, said:
"Are you innocent or guilty?"
"It makes no difference now; but tell me are you Renie
Pearce?"
"I am Renie Pearce."
"I have an important communication to make to you before I
die."
"To me?"
"Yes."
"Well, speak!"
"What I communicate must be spoken in your ear alone, as it
concerns you only."
"Go and see what he has to say," commanded the leader of the
lynching party.
The girl stepped close to the man and the lyncher stepped
back.
In a low tone the detective said:
"Be calm and do not betray that you know me!"
The girl felt her heart stand still, and a cry rose to her
lips.
"Hold," whispered the officer, "or you will destroy all
chances for escape."
The girl's face assumed the hue of death, a thrilling
suspicion flashed through her mind.
"You can save me, Renie, but if you betray my real identity I
am doomed!"
"Are you Spencer Vance?"
"Yes."
"Heavens! what does this mean?"
"It is no time for explanations now; tell me, is your father
dead?"
"He shows signs of life."
"Then you can save my life."
"You shall not die!"
"Listen, tell the men I have made certain revelations to you;
tell them your father is reviving; bid them wait and let the
old man identify me as the assailant, or proclaim my innocence."
"I see! I see!" said the girl.
"Remember, under no circumstances, even though I die, must my
identity be betrayed!"
"You can trust me."
The girl stepped toward the men, and addressing them, said:
"You must not hang that man!"
"Is the man your friend?" came the question in a jeering tone.
"The man is a stranger; but I am satisfied he did not strike
down my father. He has told me important things; my father
revives, let my father see this man!"
At the moment there came a fortunate diversion in favor of the
policy of delay; a voice called in from the house,
"Come here, Renie, your father is reviving. He has called for
you!"
"Bring the man to my father," said the girl.
"Yes," came the answer from several.
"Throw the rope off from around his neck."
A young man stepped forward and did as commanded.
The sentiment was turning in favor of the seemingly doomed
man.