"It is, for a fact," admitted Harry. "I believe, if the truth was
known, this man Ruggles will prove to be the man we want. Have you
that handkerchief with you, Dyke, that we found in the coat of the
rascal who attempted your murder in St. Louis?"

This was several hours after the events of the morning, and Nell was
now resting in a large wooden rocker, very weak, yet feeling
remarkably well, considering the siege she had passed through during
the past two weeks and more. Dyke Darrel and Harry were the only
occupants of the room, the farmer being at his work in the field, and
his good wife attending preparations for supper in the kitchen.

"I have kept the tell-tale handkerchief through it all," answered the
detective, at the same time producing the article from a receptacle
beneath, his shirt.

"It's a wonder this was not discovered when you were in the hands of
the thugs of Chicago."

"I wasn't closely searched, I suppose. You and the boys were too close
after them."

"You give me too much credit, Dyke," returned Harry Bernard, modestly.
"I've a question to ask."

"Ask as many as you like."

"Was it the fact of my hand fitting this bloody imprint that so
startled you in the St. Louis hotel?"