“Cover up any little nasty sounds we may stir up.”

“Will there be noises?” The girl seemed to shrink. Then suddenly her form stiffened. “Count me in on—on anything. They are dirty dogs, these kidnapers; deserve the worst!”

“Yes, the very worst!” Red agreed.

He felt loath to leave this place of warmth and momentary peace. There was something altogether agreeable about being so near to this girl he had never seen. “Well, the zero hour approaches.”

“Yes.” She sprang to her feet. “Let’s make it now!”

“Now it is.”

He rose to stand beside her. So for one full moment, side by side in the dark, they stood.

At last, with a long-drawn sigh, he seized her hand to lead her out into the night.

CHAPTER IV
THE GHOST APPEARS

The mysterious disappearance of Red Rodgers, or the Red Rover, as every one knew him, caused a great commotion. Had a President been assassinated it could not have caused a greater stir.

Not an hour had passed after he vanished before the newspapers came out with an extra with a story telling in detail all that was known about the affair.

“Red Rover,” the story ran, “has never cared for crowds. Being the star of the team, he has often of late been all but mobbed by impetuous youths, foolish old women and infatuated girls. For this reason he had formed a friendship with the watchman at the tracks by the river where the trains are made up. To-night, once safely past this watchman, he went directly to his berth and turned in for the night.

“It is to be assumed that he fell asleep at once, for, though the watchman was not two hundred yards away, he heard no outcry such as might be expected had the boy been surprised while asleep and gagged before fully awake.

“There are few clues,” the story went on to state. “In their haste the kidnapers dragged a pillow from the berth. It was this pillow, standing out white in the moonlight, that attracted the watchman’s attention. The watchman distinctly recalls hearing the sudden whir and thunder of a powerful motor shortly before making this discovery. He believes this to have been the motor of a speed boat, and has the impression that it went south.

“Various motives have been brought forward. The Rover, some say, was kidnaped for ransom. He is the all-important factor in the game to be played at the end of the week. Without him Old Midway cannot hope to win. For this reason the kidnapers may have believed that a sum might be extorted from officials of the university for his return. Knowing the stand that President Lovell of Old Midway has taken against kidnapers, and the work the Crime Institute of that university has done in this connection, it is the opinion of those close to the president that no ransom will be paid.

“We have before us the question: Was the Red Rover kidnaped for ransom or as a retaliation for work against master criminals carried on by the university? There are those who will whisper that the school against whom the Red Rover was to have played is behind this affair. This, to any fair-minded person, is unthinkable.

“Sergeants Drew Lane and Tom Howe, two of the keenest young minds of the city’s detective force, have been assigned to the case. It is the hope of the entire city that their labors will bear fruit and that the Red Rover’s beloved sorrel top will be seen in the line when the line-up is formed for the greatest game of the year.”

An hour had not passed after the discovery of the crime, when the broad-shouldered, athletic Drew Lane, with derby pushed well back on his head, stood beside his slim, hawk-nosed partner overlooking the car yards at the spot where the Red Rover had vanished.

“Let’s have a look inside the car,” suggested Howe.

“You look.” Drew Lane turned toward the river. “If a speed boat left the river near this spot, there’ll be marks to show. May get a sure tip showing the direction she was headed. That’s important.”

Sergeant Howe swung up to the platform of the car, then slipped quietly inside. The place seemed deserted. A double row of curtains, one on either side, flanked the narrow, dimly lighted aisle.

“Ready for the night. All the other players get on at the depot, I suppose,” Howe mumbled in a low monotone.

He paused to look and listen. He had always found a sleeping car, made up for the night, a spooky affair. Dim lights, silence, long rows of curtains. And behind the curtains, what? Death? Perhaps. Men have died of heart disease in their berths. Died of a knife in the heart as well.

“Capital place for a murder.”

Involuntarily he looked behind him. Had he caught the sound of light footsteps?

There was no one in sight. “Boo! Who’d bother to bump off a city detective!” He laughed a low, unpleasant laugh. “We’re supposed to be too dumb to do anything disturbing to criminals.

“All the same!” He straightened up with a snap. “This is a case where we must win. We simply must! The Red Rover must be in the line-up when the big day comes. And it’s up to Drew and me!” Howe was a loyal son of Old Midway. Loyalty to his Alma Mater compelled him to do his best. More than that, Red Rodgers was the type he admired, a silent worker.

“He works,” Drew Lane had said once, with a note of admiration in his voice. “He’s like you, Howe. He digs in and says never a word.”

“Digs in,” Howe muttered. “That’s what we must do; dig in hard.”

With that he went gliding down the aisle to pause before Section Nine.

“Ah!” he breathed as he parted the curtains. “Seems I am in time. Nothing disturbed.”

His keen, hawk-like eyes took in all at a glance. The hammock, where clothing was deposited for the night, was gone.

“Just yanked it down and took it, clothes and all. You might think from that that Red had something they wanted in his clothes. Guess not, though.”

His eyes wandered from corner to corner of the narrow space. “Covers gone. Wrapped him in them and tied him up. Need to do that. Scrapper, Red is. Take six of those soft, beer-soaked bums to hold him if he had an even break. You—”

He broke off to stare at the center of the lower sheet which still remained on the bed. At its very center was a deep dent.

“Stepped there,” he told himself, “one of ’em.”

Switching on his flashlight, he examined the sheet in minute detail.

“Not a mark,” he muttered. “Take it along all the same.”

“You all goin’ t’ take that sheet?” The porter was at his elbow.

“Sure am.” Howe showed his star.

“All right, Mister Police. Ah cain’t stop you. But t’ain’t no sort of use. Ain’t no marks on that sheet. I examined it particular.”

“Were you here when the thing happened?” Howe’s eagle eyes snapped.

“No. Oh, no, suh! Ah don’t come on ’fore half a hour ago.”

“But you weren’t far away,” Howe thought to himself. “Hiding in the linen closet, like as not. Bribed you, maybe. Wonder how much it would cost to buy a porter?”

“What’s your number?” he demanded sharply.

“Three twenty-seven.” The porter’s wide eyes rolled. “But hones’, Mister Policeman, I don’ know nothin’, nothin’ at all! But you take that sheet, just take it right square along.”

“Did you find something, Sergeant?” a fresh voice broke in.

“Just a sheet that had been stepped