ed to arrest Mason
right away."

The coon crossed the river, with Harry on the same boat.

Old King Brady met Harry on the Jersey side and Young King Brady told
his partner about Sim.

A smile of intense satisfaction crossed the old detective's bewhiskered
face, and he strode along behind the valet and saw him board the train.

The Bradys followed.

Shortly afterward the cars started.

On the following night they all alighted at Swamp Angel and the negro
took to the railroad track and started to tramp in the direction of the
swamp where Mr. Dalton's body had disappeared.

There was plenty shelter from the negro's gaze for the detectives, and
they silently and stealthily sped along in pursuit of their decoy.

CHAPTER XI.

IN THE QUICKSAND.

"Halt, or you're a dead man!"

It was a stern command, in a rough voice.

The Bradys paused near some rocks and saw two rifle barrels aimed over
the top of them, in the hands of two masked men.

Hearing the voice, Johnson had come to a sudden stop and glanced
around.

Just as the detectives were about to reach for the revolvers they
carried, the same rough voice sang out, quickly:

"Hands up!"

The sharp click of the rifle hammers followed.

It would have been sheer folly to disobey that command, for the masked
men had a bead drawn on the officers.

In that lonely place no one would know they got killed.

They felt chagrined over the careless way in which they walked right
into the ambuscade, and raised their hands.

"Goldurn yer!" cried Old King Brady. "What on airth dew yer mean by
holdin' up a feller citizen this way?"

One of the masked men emerged from behind the rocks.

He was nicely clad, wore a big felt hat, had long hair hanging down on
his shoulders and a brown mustache on his upper lip.

This man looked like a southern planter.

A hideous half mask of black hid the upper half of his face and the
Winchester he carried was aimed at the officers.

He intently studied Old King Brady's face a few moments, then asked:

"What were you skulking along after that negro for?"

The moment the officers heard his voice they recognized him, despite
his disguise, as Ronald Mason.

Affecting an indignant air, Old King Brady growled:

"Goldurn it, who wuz afollerin' that nigger?"

"You were."

"No, we wuzn't!"

"I'll find out about that! Hey, Sim!"

"Am dat yo', Massa Ronald?" cried the coon, running back.

"Yes, and here are two fellows