Then he retraced the entire distance backward, leaving a plain imprint with every step. Brick's heart sank. He thought he knew what this proceeding meant.

The two men next removed their snowshoes, and made Brick do likewise.

They put the three pairs under the luggage on the sled, and drew the straps as tight as possible. Raikes hoisted the heavy sled to his right shoulder. Then the start was made, in the following order: Raikes first, Brick in the middle, and Bogle bringing up the rear, whence he could watch every movement of the prisoner. The three followed the ledge of rocks to its very end, and stepped off into the swift, open channel of the brook. The water was shallow, but fearfully cold. It quickly penetrated Brick's boots and made him shiver. Raikes and Bogle did not seem to mind it. The latter turned and looked back.

"Well done," he muttered. "That would almost throw a bloodhound off the trail."

"There's better luck in store for us," replied Raikes. "We'll have snow before morning."

"I believe it," a.s.sented Bogle, glancing up at the murky sky. "Go ahead. Don't you plant your feet anywhere but in the water, youngster."

Raikes led the way down the center of the brook, between deep and gloomy woods. The chilling journey lasted for more than a mile. The water sometimes took the waders almost to their knees. Brick was heartily glad when the open lake came in sight. It was frozen hard against the sh.o.r.e.

The party pushed rapidly up the lake, evidently with a fixed destination in view. Here and there were great drifts of snow, but, for the most part, the ice was bare. The travelers left no trace behind them. Raikes bore the heavy sled as though it was a trifling burden.

About midafternoon, when the head of the lake was several miles distant, a lively snowgust came on. Raikes and Bogle held a short conversation.

Then they headed due east, across the lake. Before they tramped a mile the snow had turned to a steady fall of fine flakes. It quickly covered the ice to the depth of an inch. Raikes lowered the sled and trailed it behind him.

It was quite dark when the eastern sh.o.r.e of Chesumcook was reached--so dark that the forest was only a blurred blot against the night.

The snow was several inches deep, and still falling in a white, stealthy cloud. There was scarcely enough wind to stir the tops of the pine trees.

Brick had hoped that his captors would pitch camp here. He was hungry and tired, and his frosted feet ached with every step.

However, he was destined to disappointment. No doubt Raikes and Bogle were equally disposed to rest, but, nevertheless, they lit a lantern and plunged into the forest.

As before, Raikes took the lead, while Bogle followed on Brick's heels.

All wore their snowshoes again, and they traveled at a fair rate of speed.

Brick speedily lost all track of his bearings. For nearly two hours he followed the misty gleam of Raikes' lantern--over hills, across open meadows, and through narrow ravines. The snow grew deeper and deeper, and at times it fairly blinded him. Then, without knowing how or when it began, he found himself threading the mazy windings of a vast, frozen marsh.

The path was a tortuous one. It led over rocks, and fallen trees, and patches of tangled gra.s.s. At times it slipped under canopies of interlaced bushes. Here it was necessary to stoop very low.

A whole hour was spent in traversing this gloomy and boundless place.

Brick began to believe that it had no end.

"A little faster, youngster," urged Bogle, in a gruff voice. "We don't want to spend the night out of doors. A lovely hiding-place, this, ain't it? An army could never find us here. If we should turn you loose now, you would wander about till you died of starvation. You could never get out."

Brick shuddered. He tried hard to quicken his pace. Raikes was moving rapidly, and in a manner that betokened familiarity with the ground.

"It's not far now," he called back to Brick. "You'll soon have supper and sleep."

Five minutes later the tangle of the undergrowth and young timber ended abruptly on the edge of a small clearing. Here, faintly outlined against the driving snow, stood a low, flat-roofed log cabin.

Raikes grunted with satisfaction as he opened the door. Bogle pushed Brick inside, where the scene was in strong contrast to the outer storm.

The floor was planked. A pile of wood was stacked by the open fireplace.

The furniture consisted of two benches and a table. One end of the room was spread with pine boughs, on top of which were blankets.

A blazing fire was quickly built. The sled yielded provisions in plenty, and from a small cupboard Raikes took dishes and cooking utensils.

A little later the three sat down to a tempting supper. The fact that he was a prisoner did not interfere with Brick's appet.i.te, and he ate heartily.

When the meal was over, the men prepared for bed. They made Brick lie down between them, and his left wrist was fastened to Bogle's right by a pair of slender, steel bracelets.

Brick was too sleepy to mind this indignity. From the moment his head touched the pine boughs, he knew nothing until he woke, to find the light of day shining through the cabin's one window.

The fire was roaring, and the table was set. Raikes was frying bacon and potatoes, and Bogle sat near by, smoking a pipe.

"Get up, youngster," he called out, when he saw that Brick was awake.

"How do you feel this morning?"

"Pretty good," answered Brick.

He was puzzled to account for the ruffian's affable manner.

Raikes now announced that breakfast was ready. He pulled a bench to the table, and the three sat down. Bogle was the last to finish. He rose and opened the door.

"Come here, youngster," he said.

Brick obeyed. From the threshold the prospect was dreary and dismal. No snow was falling, but it lay deep on the bit of clearing. Overhead was the murky, gray sky; in front the tangled thickets of the marsh.

"I want to tell you where you are," resumed Bogle. "This cabin is in the biggest and loneliest swamp in the State of Maine. Raikes and I built it two years ago. No one ever comes near the locality. The swamp is regarded as inaccessible. Your friends would not find you, if they searched for ten years. Even if you escaped, you could never get put of the swamp. You would lose yourself, and travel around in a circle."

Brick did not doubt the truth of this. A lump rose in his throat as he turned away from the door. He could scarcely repress the tears. Raikes was just putting away the last of the dishes. He glanced meaningly at Bogle. The latter opened the cupboard, and brought out a bottle of ink, a pen, some sheets of paper, a pack of envelopes, and arranged these things on the table.

Brick wondered what was coming next. He felt more curiosity than fear.

He did not have long to wait.

Bogle drew a packet of letters from his pocket and held them up. They bore foreign stamps and postmarks.

"Do you recognize these?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Brick, in an aggressive tone. "You stole them out of my coat on the night of the tenth of December."

His face flushed with anger as he remembered all that happened on that occasion.

"No impudence," growled Bogle. "I won't have it. I'm showing you these letters in order that you may see the uselessness of telling us any lies. We know who you are and all about you. You are the son of John Larkins, the wealthy contractor of New York."

"Well, I don't deny it," replied Brick. "What's that to you?"

"You will find out presently," said Bogle, with a mocking smile. "I want a little information first. These letters were written to you by your father. The last one is dated at Mentone on the twenty-fourth of November. Is he still there?"

"Yes."

"And how long will he remain?"

Brick hesitated an instant.