CHAPTER XI.
POOR SIBYL!
Instantly the detective drew his revolver and sought shelter behind atree. Then he gazed sharply in the direction from whence the sound ofthe rifle had come.
A faint line of smoke in the distance alone met the gaze of DykeDarrel.
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 BlackHollow is the rendezvous of a gang of outlaws. I wish I had one goodman with me to help hunt these scoundrels down."
The darkness deepened, but no one appeared, and fearing that he wouldnot be able to follow the path if he tarried, Dyke Darrel, with hisrevolver in hand, ready for use, moved from his shelter, and attemptedto make his way out of the labyrinth in which he found himself.
The detective soon lost the path, however, and found himself in adesperate tangle, with the blackness of a dismal night settling downupon the place.
"I'm in a pickle, now, for a fact," muttered Dyke Darrel. "I was alittle indiscreet in coming here so late in the day. It does seem asthough I must come out somewhere if I continue to strive."
Nevertheless, an hour's walk in the dense undergrowth failed to bringthe detective to the bank of Black Hollow, or to any opening. "Averitable trap for the unwary," growled Dyke, as he halted with hisback against a tree, with the perspiration oozing from every pore.Even his wiry limbs and muscles were not proof against the tanglednature of the wood into which he had so coolly entered.
Dyke Darrel was not in a pleasant mood as he stood meditating on thesituation.
"It looks now as though I was destined to remain in the wood allnight."
It was not a pleasing prospect.
The detective was on the point of making one more effort to breakthrough the tangle that encompassed him, when something caught his eyethat 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 withthe thickets with renewed courage. In a little time he entered a gladein the woods, to find himself standing in near proximity to a low logcabin, 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 thewood was the haunt of outlaws, and this very house might be the denwhere the plunder of many raids was secreted.
Soon the detective stood on a little rise of ground, in such aposition that he could peer into the window. The interior of a small,poorly-furnished apartment met his gaze. Beside the glowing embers ofa wood fire in a box stove crouched a human figure, seemingly the onlyoccupant of the lone log cabin.
There was a wealth of golden hair flashing in the firelight, and theblack robe covered the form of what seemed to be a beautiful woman.
As may be supposed, the detective was surprised at the sight. After amoment of reflection he resolved to enter the cabin.
Striding to the door, he rapped gently. No answer came, and thedetective rapped again. This time the door was cautiously opened, anda 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. Thisseemed 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, standwhere you are, and do not move. It may be that you are the one I havebeen looking for all these years."
The speaker was evidently young, and possessed a weirdly beautifulface, that strangely attracted Dyke Darrel. He stood still and watchedher singular movements curiously.
She drew a morocco case from her bosom, opened it, and gazed atsomething, evidently a picture, long and earnestly. She seemed to becomparing 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, youknow, 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 backto comfort his poor Sybil after these long, weary years."
A low, startling laugh fell from her lips at the last. She dartedacross the floor, and flung the door wide, peering out into thedarkness.
A solemn, awful silence followed, then the door was sharply closed,and the queerly acting girl faced Dyke Darrel once more. She lookedweirdly beautiful, with a mass of golden hair falling below her taperwaist, her face white as the winter's snow, almost too white for theliving.
So she stood now; the dancing light from the fire fell full on hercountenance, revealing it for the first time plainly to the gaze ofthe 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 armsoutstretched, as though attempting to fly.
The truth came with stunning force--the poor girl was crazy! Herfather, a wealthy Burlington real estate broker, had mysteriouslydisappeared some months before, and it was supposed that he had metwith foul play. Despite the efforts of Dyke Darrel and otherdetectives, no clew had yet been found of the missing man. Thedetective had met Sibyl at her father's house, and had regarded her asone both beautiful and accomplished. To meet her as now was a terriblerevelation indeed.
No wonder Dyke Darrel was stunned.
For some moments he stood in pained silence, watching the antics ofthe poor unfortunate.
"Hubert will come, Hubert will come," she sung, as she glided back andforth across the floor.
What had caused this awful calamity? Dyke Darrel asked this questionin saddened thoughtfulness, as he gazed upon the beautiful wreckbefore him.
"Tell me that Hubert will come, sir, and then I won't believe that hewrote that cruel letter," cried Sibyl, in a mournful voice, pausing infront of the detective. "I cannot tell you unless you show me theletter," returned Dyke Darrel, resolving to humor her.
Quickly she drew from her bosom a letter and placed it in thedetective's hand.
He drew it from the wrapper, hoping to learn something that might givehim a clew to the situation.
This is what he read:
"MISS SIBYL OSBORNE: I am sorry to inform you that I cannot see youagain. I am off for Europe on my wedding tour. Forget me as soon aspossible.
"H. VANDER."
"Do you think my Hubert could write anything so cruel?" shequestioned, 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 accountof her father's disappearance and the treachery of her lover. Thedetective's heart beat sympathetically for the poor wronged girl. Itwas his duty to see the girl safely on her way to the Burlington erehe continued his search for the assassins of Arnold Nicholson. One hadalready given up his account, but there were others yet to punish.
While Dyke Darrel stood debating what course to pursue, under theremarkable 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 wasextended, pointing toward the window. Dyke Barrel followed with hiseyes, and then he, too, uttered an involuntary cry.
&n
bsp; Glued to the narrow pane was a face that was startling in theintensity of its ghastly pallor, but it was not this that sent aninvoluntary exclamation to the lips of the railroad detective.
The face at the window was that of his friend, HARPER ELLISTON! Hispresence here was one of the mysteries of that eventful night.
Dyke Darrel the Railroad Detective; Or, The Crime of the Midnight Express Page 11
