“Are you sure of the man, my dear Jules?”

“Undoubtedly.  I didn’t get a square look at him, but he’s a gentleman by the quality of his clothes.  He is the same build; it is not a plow-horse, but a thoroughbred he’s riding.  The gentlemen of the valley are in their beds long ago.”

“Would that we were in ours!  The spring nights are cold in these hills!”

“The work is nearly done.  The little soldier is yet to reckon with; but we are three; and Zmai did quite well with the potato sack.”

Chauvenet rode ahead and addressed a few words to Zmai.

“The little man must be found before we finish.  There must be no mistake about it.”

They exercised greater caution as they drew nearer the wood that concealed the bungalow, and Chauvenet dismounted, opened the gate and set a stone against it to insure a ready egress; then they walked their horses up the driveway.

Admonished by Chauvenet, Durand threw away his cigarette with a sigh.

“You are convinced this is the wise course, dearest Jules?”

“Be quiet and keep your eyes open.  There’s the house.”

He halted the party, dismounted and crept forward to the bungalow.  He circled the veranda, found the blinds open, and peered into the long lounging-room, where a few embers smoldered in the broad fireplace, and an oil lamp shed a faint light.  One man they held captive; the other was not in sight; Chauvenet’s courage rose at the prospect of easy victory.  He tried the door, found it unfastened, and with his revolver ready in his hand, threw it open.  Then he walked slowly toward the table, turned the wick of the lamp high, and surveyed the room carefully.  The doors of the rooms that opened from the apartment stood ajar; he followed the wall cautiously, kicked them open, peered into the room where Armitage’s things were scattered about, and found his iron bed empty.  Then he walked quickly to the veranda and summoned the others.

“Bring him in!” he said, without taking his eyes from the room.

A moment later Zmai had lifted the silent rider to the veranda, and flung him across the threshold.  Durand, now aroused, fastened the horses to the veranda rail.

Chauvenet caught up some candles from the mantel and lighted them.

“Open the trunks in those rooms and be quick; I will join you in a moment;” and as Durand turned into Armitage’s room, Chauvenet peered again into the other chambers, called once or twice in a low tone; then turned to Zmai and the prisoner.

“Take off the bag,” he commanded.

Chauvenet studied the lines of the erect, silent figure as Zmai loosened the strap, drew off the bag, and stepped back toward the table on which he had laid his revolver for easier access.

“Mr. John Armitage—­”

Chauvenet, his revolver half raised, had begun an ironical speech, but the words died on his lips.  The man who stood blinking from the sudden burst of light was not John Armitage, but Captain Claiborne.