"We were under the impression that he had been making this house his abode," replied Old King Brady, in some surprise.

"No, indeed. George, the caretaker, declares that n.o.body but he and his wife have been in this house since you two gentlemen were here last."

"That is very strange," said the old detective.

"Why do you think so?" asked the girl, curiously.

"It puzzles me to account for Mason haunting the swamp and never coming near this house. Why is he hanging around that dismal swamp? What is the attraction that keeps him there with no friends or companions but those two negroes?"

"Was the other masked man a negro?"

"Yes. I saw the rascal's black skin plainly."

"Perhaps he is in the swamp to avoid arrest."

"No, no. He would not select such a malarious hole when there are so many pleasanter places for him to abide in. There is a deeper reason behind it. We must find out what it is."

"When he learns I am here, Mr. Brady, he may take it into his head to continue his persecutions."

"Not while we are here to protect you."

"Then you will be my guests?" eagerly asked the girl.

"Nothing would afford us greater pleasure."

"That makes my mind feel much easier."

"If your father should yet be alive and they should have him concealed somewhere around this swamp, it might account for their presence here."

"Yes, yes," she a.s.sented, eagerly. "You've proven conclusively that my poor father was not the man found in the river."

"In view of the fact that the game is up, so far as Mason is concerned, I can't fathom any object he may have in keeping your father a prisoner any longer. That is, of course, presuming he really has your father alive and imprisoned anywhere."

"Well," said the girl, reflectively, "I cannot give an opinion on that point at all. I can only keep on hoping that you may soon find my father, dead or alive. It would end this dreadful suspense and uncertainty about his fate."

At this juncture George's wife stuck her kinky head in at the door and announced that dinner was awaiting them.

The Bradys were shown to their rooms.

Having washed and made their toilets as best they could, they went down and joined Lizzie in the dining-room.

After that, several days and nights of hard work ensued.

The Bradys abandoned their disguises, merely wearing their top boots, and thoroughly scoured the swamp.

Not a trace of Mason or his two negroes was found.

It nettled the detectives, and finally drove them to the conclusion that the rascally trio had gone away.

a.s.sured of this, the Bradys searched Swamp Angel.

No one there had seen anything of the men in question.

It therefore seemed quite evident that they cleared out of that neighborhood entirely, and a.s.sured of this, the Bradys started for home afoot that night.

"We shall have to leave here to-morrow," said the old sleuth, "and get upon their track elsewhere, Harry."

"It's a question how to find their trail," the boy answered, dubiously.

"As they more than likely went by rail, we could easily make inquiries of the pa.s.sing train crews for some tidings of them."

Just then the pounding of horses' hoofs upon the road reached their ears, and they rushed behind a heap of rocks.

Parting some bushes growing there, they peered out.

The moon was rising in the cloudy sky, lighting up the dusty road, and the detectives caught view of two men on horseback.

They were coming from the direction of Pine Creek, the next railroad station beyond Swamp Angel, and carried bundles of provisions.

As Harry's glance fell upon the pair, he grasped Old King Brady's arm, and muttered in low, excited tones:

"It's Mason and Johnson, or some other negro."

"Hush! Keep quiet!" muttered Old King Brady.

Up came the hors.e.m.e.n, blissfully ignorant of the fact that the detectives were watching them, and Mason was laughing and saying:

"The fools were searching the swamp for us during the past three days, Nick, and they couldn't find a sign of us."

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed the negro. "'Specs dey am not so smart as dey fink dey am. An' what's mo', dey nebber find us."

Just then the detectives sprang from their covert.

Landing in the road in front of the two startled men, they grasped the horses' bridles at the bits, and the frightened beasts paused and reared up.

"Whoa!" yelled Mason. "What's that? Whoa!"

Old King Brady aimed a pistol up in his face.

"It's me!" he cried.

"Thunder!" roared the man.

"You throw your hands up."

"What for?"

"Because we want you!"