_ 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.
A faint line of smoke in the distance alone met the gaze of Dyke Darrel.
It was evident that some one had fired upon him with murderous intent. This was the belief of the detective.
"Somebody has dogged my steps; there can be no doubt about that," answered Dyke Darrel. "I was not wrong in my supposition that Black Hollow is the rendezvous of a gang of outlaws. I wish I had one good man with me to help hunt these scoundrels down."
The darkness deepened, but no one appeared, and fearing that he would not be able to follow the path if he tarried, Dyke Darrel, with his revolver in hand, ready for use, moved from his shelter, and attempted to make his way out of the labyrinth in which he found himself.
The detective soon lost the path, however, and found himself in a desperate tangle, with the blackness of a dismal night settling down upon the place.
"I'm in a pickle, now, for a fact," muttered Dyke Darrel. "I was a little indiscreet in coming here so late in the day. It does seem as though I must come out somewhere if I continue to strive."
Nevertheless, an hour's walk in the dense undergrowth failed to bring the detective to the bank of Black Hollow, or to any opening. "A veritable trap for the unwary," growled Dyke, as he halted with his back against a tree, with the perspiration oozing from every pore. Even his wiry limbs and muscles were not proof against the tangled nature of the wood into which he had so coolly entered.
Dyke Darrel was not in a pleasant mood as he stood meditating on the situation.
"It looks now as though I was destined to remain in the wood all night."
It was not a pleasing prospect.
The detective was on the point of making one more effort to break through the tangle that encompassed him, when something caught his eye that sent a thrill to his heart.
It was the glimmer of a light.
It did not seem to be far away, and Dyke Darrel resumed his fight with the thickets with renewed courage. In a little time he entered a glade in the woods, to find himself standing in near proximity to a low log cabin, through a narrow window of which a light glimmered.
"Some one lives here, it seems."
Dyke Darrel moved forward cautiously, for he still believed that the wood was the haunt of outlaws, and this very house might be the den where the plunder of many raids was secreted.
Soon the detective stood on a little rise of ground, in such a position that he could peer into the window. The interior of a small, poorly-furnished apartment met his gaze. Beside the glowing embers of a wood fire in a box stove crouched a human figure, seemingly the only occupant of the lone log cabin.
There was a wealth of golden hair flashing in the firelight, and the black robe covered the form of what seemed to be a beautiful woman.
As may be supposed, the detective was surprised at the sight. After a moment of reflection he resolved to enter the cabin.
Striding to the door, he rapped gently. No answer came, and the detective rapped again. This time the door was cautiously opened, and a white face peered out.
"Who's there?"
"A traveler who has lost his way."
"You cannot come in. Sibyl isn't afraid, but she wishes to be alone."
Nevertheless, the woman stood aside and held the door wide. This seemed invitation enough, and the detective at once crossed the floor, and pushed to the door at his back.
The female receded before him, and stood at the far side of the room, with both hands extended, waving them gently up and down.
"Come no nearer, sir; Sibyl would view you from afar. There, stand where you are, and do not move. It may be that you are the one I have been looking for all these years."
The speaker was evidently young, and possessed a weirdly beautiful face, that strangely attracted Dyke Darrel. He stood still and watched her singular movements curiously.
She drew a morocco case from her bosom, opened it, and gazed at something, evidently a picture, long and earnestly. She seemed to be comparing the face of the picture with that of her visitor.
Dyke Darrel was puzzled, and somewhat pleased.
"No, you are not my Hubert; he was a nobler looking gentleman by far."
"Will you permit me to look at the picture, Miss--"
"No, no; I dare not trust it out of my hands. I promised him, you know, and I must not disappoint Hubert, for he is very exacting. Hark!"
The girl secreted her prize, and lifted a warning hand.
"Don't you hear his step? It is Hubert--dear, dear Hubert--come back to comfort his poor Sybil after these long, weary years."
A low, startling laugh fell from her lips at the last. She darted across the floor, and flung the door wide, peering out into the darkness.
A solemn, awful silence followed, then the door was sharply closed, and the queerly acting girl faced Dyke Darrel once more. She looked weirdly beautiful, with a mass of golden hair falling below her taper waist, her face white as the winter's snow, almost too white for the living.
So she stood now; the dancing light from the fire fell full on her countenance, revealing it for the first time plainly to the gaze of the detective.
A low, stunned cry escaped from his lips.
"My God! It is Sibyl Osborne, the Burlington Captain's daughter."
A low laugh fell from the girl's lips.
She began humming a gay tune, and danced across the room with arms outstretched, as though attempting to fly.
The truth came with stunning force--the poor girl was crazy! Her father, a wealthy Burlington real estate broker, had mysteriously disappeared some months before, and it was supposed that he had met with foul play. Despite the efforts of Dyke Darrel and other detectives, no clew had yet been found of the missing man. The detective had met Sibyl at her father's house, and had regarded her as one both beautiful and accomplished. To meet her as now was a terrible revelation indeed.
No wonder Dyke Darrel was stunned.
For some moments he stood in pained silence, watching the antics of the poor unfortunate.
"Hubert will come, Hubert will come," she sung, as she glided back and forth across the floor.
What had caused this awful calamity? Dyke Darrel asked this question in saddened thoughtfulness, as he gazed upon the beautiful wreck before him.
"Tell me that Hubert will come, sir, and then I won't believe that he wrote that cruel letter," cried Sibyl, in a mournful voice, pausing in front of the detective. "I cannot tell you unless you show me the letter," returned Dyke Darrel, resolving to humor her.
Quickly she drew from her bosom a letter and placed it in the detective's hand.
He drew it from the wrapper, hoping to learn something that might give him a clew to the situation.
This is what he read:
"MISS SIBYL OSBORNE: I am sorry to inform you that I cannot see you again. I am off for Europe on my wedding tour. Forget me as soon as possible.
"H. VANDER."
"Do you think my Hubert could write anything so cruel?" she questioned, as he handed the missive back to her.
"It doesn't seem possible," answered Dyke Darrel.
It was evident to his mind that the girl had become crazed on account of her father's disappearance and the treachery of her lover. The detective's heart beat sympathetically for the poor wronged girl. It was his duty to see the girl safely on her way to the Burlington ere he continued his search for the assassins of Arnold Nicholson. One had already given up his account, but there were others yet to punish.
While Dyke Darrel stood debating what course to pursue, under the remarkable change in circumstances, the mad girl uttered a sudden, sharp cry.
"See! it is Hubert, my Hubert! come at last!"
A look of mad joy sped across the white face, as one slender arm was extended, pointing toward the window. Dyke Barrel followed with his eyes, and then he, too, uttered an involuntary cry.
Glued to the narrow pane was a face that was startling in the intensity of its ghastly pallor, but it was not this that sent an involuntary exclamation to the lips of the railroad detective.
The face at the window was that of his friend, HARPER ELLISTON! His presence here was one of the mysteries of that eventful night. _