"Ahem—fine evening."

A grunt answered the Professor's attempt to be sociable. At length, after casting a keen glance about the car, to find that but few passengers were present, and those of but little consequence, Professor Ruggles said:

"He's in the next car."

"Yes. I'd like to get my clutches onto him agin."

"You had him once?"

"Yes, but he had help, and escaped. Do you imagine he's on the trail?"

"Certainly," answered Professor Ruggles.

"Then he'll get off to-night."

"I hope so; but you must be cautious."

"Trust me for that."

"Have you formulated a plan?"

"None."

"Then let me help you."

"I'll be glad to do so."

"If we can get the fellow onto the platform the work will be easy. You understand, Sam?"

"I reckon."

"Once he goes over nothing can save him."

"True, but how will we git the cuss outside?"

"Easy's preaching. I'll go and introduce myself and get him to wait this car to try an excellent brand of cigars—see?" And the Professor chuckled audibly.

"I expect it's easier said than done," returned the thickset villain. "Twixt you 'n me, Ruggles, Dyke Darrel's cut his eye teeth, an' he don't walk into no traps with his eyes open, I can tell you that."

"Well, we'll see about it. I flatter myself that I'm sharper than any detective that ever lived."

Then, adjusting his glasses, the sunset-haired Professor left his seat and walked down the aisle to the door. He came hurrying back with an interested, perhaps anxious look on his countenance.

"Now's your time, Sam,