el again opened her eyes, it was to find herself calmly
resting on a couch in a little room, whose cozy appearance was like
home indeed. And the face that bent over her was not that of a
stranger. Could it be that she was dreaming?

"Thank Heaven!" murmured a manly voice, and then a mustached lip bent
and pressed a clinging kiss to the cheek of poor Nell.

"Harry, dear Harry!"

Thus had the lovers met after many long months of separation.

A smile rested on the face of the fair girl as she held Harry's hand
while he talked of the past.

She explained as best she could the strangeness of her situation; but
everything was so much like a dream, it was a hard matter to reconcile
some of the events of the past few weeks.

"The end draws nigh," assured young Bernard, after a time. "If the
notorious man calling himself Ruggles was on the train, he will, on
discovering his loss, turn back, and then I will capture him."

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE MYSTERIOUS WART.

We left Dyke Darrel, the detective, in a critical position on the
railroad track, with the roar of a freight engine in his ears. The
rays of the rising sun touched the glittering rails as the long train
swept around the bend upon doomed Dyke Darrel.

One more tremendous effort on the part of the detective, and he
succeeded in throwing his body squarely across one of the rails. In
this position he hung a helpless weight, with the hoarse roar of the
engine making anything but sweet music to his fainting soul.

Ha! Look! A hand is outstretched to save at the last moment, and Dyke
Darrel is jerked from under the smoking wheels, even as their breath
fans his fevered cheek.

The train swept on.

A cheer greeted the man who had come opportunely to the rescue as the
engine swept on its course.

And a little later a man, young, yet whose boyish face bore marks of
dissipation, stood beside the detective and gazed into his face now
for the first time.

"Great Caesar!"

The young man started as though cut by a knife, and bent low over the
fallen detective, who was now struggling to a sitting posture.

When he looked into the face of his rescuer he uttered a great cry.

"My soul! how came you here, Martin Skidway?"

"I am a fugitive," answered the young convict. "It wasn't through your
good will that I got out of prison, I can tell you that. Had I known
who it was on the track, I might not have put out my hand to save."

The detective regarded the speaker