orthern
course.

"No public house here, sir," said the man, who proved to be the
railway agent, in answer to an inquiry from the detective.

"Then I must find some one who will keep me for a short time,"
returned Dyke Darrel. "I am looking for a location in which to open a
gun-shop."

"Guns would sell here, I reckon," said Mr. Bragg. "I guess maybe I can
accommodate you with a stopping-place for a day or two."

"Thanks. I will pay you well."

"I'm not a shark," answered the agent. "You see that brown house up
yonder, in the edge of that grove?"

"Yes."

"That's my place. I can't go up just now; but you may tell my wife
that I sent you, and it will be all right."

Dyke Darrel sauntered down past several dingy-looking dwellings until
he came to the house of Mr. Bragg. It was really the most respectable
dwelling in the place, which could not have been famous for its fine
residences.

The aspect about was not calculated to prepossess one in favor of the
country. Somehow, it seemed to the detective that Black Hollow was
half a century behind the age. Mrs. Bragg was a shy, ungainly female,
and not at all communicative.

Darrel occupied the remainder of the day in exploring the country in
the vicinity. A creek crossed the railroad and entered a deep gulch,
the sides of which were lined with a dense growth of bushes.

An ill-defined path led down the steep side of the gulch, and was lost
to sight in the dense growth at the bottom.

Dyke Darrel followed this path, and soon found himself in a dense wood
that seemed to cover a strip of bottom land. Moving on, the deep
shadows soon encompassed him on every side.

A solemn stillness seemed to pervade the place, and a feeling of
loneliness came over the detective.

"What a splendid place for secreting plunder, or hiding from officers
of the law."

It was almost dark ere the detective turned to retrace his steps. The
narrow path grew indistinct, and it was only with the utmost
difficulty that Dyke Darrel kept his course.

The snapping of a dry twig suddenly startled him.

This sound was followed almost instantly by the whip-like crack of a
rifle. A stinging sensation on the cheek, together with the whistle of
a deadly bullet, warned Dyke Darrel of a narrow escape.

CHAPTER XI.

POOR SIBYL!

Instantly the detective drew his revolver and sought shelter behind a
tree. Then he gazed sharply in the direction from whence the sound of
the rifle had come.