Someone was waving a lantern as they approached the station.  The forest hid the track in both directions, but the roar of the nearing train could now be plainly heard.

Walking fast, a trifle in advance, Waldron suddenly turned and spoke over his shoulder:  “I suppose my ears deceive me, but that certainly sounds as if it were coming from the wrong direction.”

“Your ears do deceive you, of course,” Julius responded.  “All sounds are queer in the night.  Still—­by George! it certainly does seem to come from—­”

The train, puffing and panting from its pull up the grade, now showed its headlight through the trees.  There was no question about it, it was coming from the wrong direction, and therefore, unquestionably, was going in the wrong direction.

“Must be two trains pass here,” cried Julius, and he ran ahead to the hotel hand who was still waving his lantern, although the train was slowing to a standstill.  “There’s another train to-night?” he questioned.

“No, sir.  This one’s all the’ is to-night.”

Julius turned and looked at his friend.  “Well, I certainly have got you into a nice scrape,” he said solemnly.

“It looks like it,” Waldron answered shortly.  “The thing is now, how to get out of it.  We must hire something and drive back—­or to a station somewhere.”

They debated the question.  They hurried back to the office and interviewed the management, which shook its head dubiously.  The little mountain resort was far from stations where trains could be had for the city fifty miles away.  The inn had no conveyance to offer except one work team of horses and a wagon, guests invariably coming by train or motor.  There were three automobiles out on the driveway, but they belonged to the bridal party.  There had been other automobiles, but they had all left soon after dinner, their passengers having come for the dinner only, and proceeding on their way in time to make some other stopping place by bedtime.  There seemed to be no way to get Waldron back except to ask a favour of Ridgeway Jordan.

Kirke Waldron knit his brows when Julius made this suggestion as a last resort.  “I certainly hate to ask such a favour in the circumstances,” he said.  “But it’s a case of ‘must.’  I wouldn’t miss that ship to-morrow morning for any sum you could name; I can’t miss it.”

“I’ll call Ridge out,” said Julius promptly, “or—­well, good luck! here he comes.”

Wheeling, he advanced to meet a slim young man who was hurrying down the wide staircase to the lobby.  Jordan’s first glance was one of astonishment, his second of suspicion.  The reputation of Julius Broughton for mischief, particularly at times like these, was one not to be lightly overlooked.  But Julius’s air of earnestness was disarming.

“No joking, Ridge,” he said.  “Mr. Waldron and I wandered over here on a long tramp.  Dot wouldn’t tell me where you people were going.  We meant to take the train at nine forty-five, but—­well, you know timetables.  It turned out to be an up train instead of a down train.  It was all my fault.  It wouldn’t matter, but Mr. Waldron will miss a more than important engagement with a ship sailing for South America if he doesn’t get back to catch the eleven-fifty to town.  You see there isn’t a conveyance here—­”