One
glance had been sufficient to prove to her that it was not the
detective, and observing the man's swarthy complexion she
connected him with the Cuban Garcia, and it was the latter
fact which in the excitement of the moment caused her to
exclaim
"He must be the one!"
As stated, the detective was perfectly cool, but he realized
his position in all its terribleness, and more fully, when one
of the men said:
"Now, then, stranger, give an account of yourself."
"I tell you I came here to see Betsy Pearce."
"You were not at this cabin before to-night."
"I was not."
"Where do you hail from?"
"That's my business."
"That means you won't tell"
"Yes."
"You may be sorry anon, good man; and now answer! What was
your business with Betsy Pearce?"
"I will not answer."
"You had no business with Tom Pearce?"
"I did not."
"Stranger, your story don't work. Betsy Pearce has been dead
and in her grave these two years."
"I know that!"
"Ah, you knew it?"
"Yes, I learned so since my arrival on the coast."
Renie had returned to the interior of the cabin, and one of
the men said:
"Is the rope ready?"
"Yes," came the answer.
"Do you hear that, stranger?"
"I do."
"Rig a swing cross, boys. We'll fix this fellow, and teach
all comers that this is the wrong coast for such scoundrels!"
The detective fully realized the men were in earnest, and
that, unless some fortunate accident intervened. it would
indeed be an "up you go" with him.
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