“I am afraid you will get me in trouble before this affair is ended.”

“This affair will be ended to-night.”

The detective gave Taylor a few instructions and then proceeded to the depot.

Spencer Vance, as he appeared at the little frame station, was as perfect a specimen of a countryman as ever took train from the rural districts for New York.

Ike Denman was at the station.  The master of the “Nancy” had also wrought a great change in his personal appearance.  He looked little like the man who had stood on the beach across the bay a few hours previously.

It was half an hour previous to the starting of the train when the detective reached the depot, and as he stood around with his hands in his pockets, the master of the “Nancy” several times passed within a few feet of him.

Little did the smuggler captain dream, as he ran his eyes over the rustic-looking passenger, that under that clownish hat was the busy brain that had trailed him and his crew down to such a fine point.

The detective, meantime, was happy, and at the moment little dreamed of the terrible tragedy that had occurred, and which, strangely enough, but awaited his unraveling.

The half hour glided by, and at length the smuggler captain and the detective boarded the train.

CHAPTER XXIX.

The detective acted well his part, and attracted little attention from the master of the “Nancy,” until the latter, for lack of something better to do, took a seat beside our hero.

“On your way to the city?”

“Yes.”

“Do you go there often?”

“No.”

“You live at G-----?”

“No.”

“Where do you live?”

“On the island.”

“You live on the island?”

“Yes.”

“I often go to the island; don’t remember ever having seen you.”

“I’ve been off on a trip.”

“A trip?”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“Connecticut.”

The master of the “Nancy” laughed, and said: 

“Do you call that a trip?”

“Yes; I was away from the island two years.”

“What’s your name?”

The countryman looked the master of the “Nancy” all over, winking knowingly, and said: 

“You cannot come that over me!”

“Come what over you?”

“Oh, I’m no fool!  I know how you Yorkers work the trains.”

“You know how we Yorkers work the trains?”

“Yes.”

“What do we work them for?”

“Suckers; but I’m no fool!  You can’t come any of your smart games over me.  I’ve lived a couple of years in Hartford; I’m posted!”

“So you think I’m a Yorker?”

“Of coarse I do.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You look like one.”

“You’re a smart Alec, my friend from Connecticut.”