He soon tore loose, but
precious time had been lost.
With a sweep of his hand, the man, whom our Yankee friend had taken for
August Bordine, dashed the lamp to the floor, leaving the room in total
darkness.
"Good-by, Mr. Keene. I hope you'll have better success next time,"
chuckled a voice, and then the outer door slammed, denoting that the
outlaw had passed out into the night.
All this was the work of less than a minute.
The detective, for he it was, wrenched himself from the woman's detaining
arms, and dashed down the hall to the street. Darkness reigned outside,
and it soon became evident that the outlaw had made good his escape.
The baffled detective went back to the house in no enviable mood.
"I'm a little out in my reckoning," he muttered. "That man was certainly
Barkswell, and yet he resembled Bordine. Can it be that the two are
identical? They certainly look enough alike to be twin brothers."
Once more the detective entered the house. Groping along the hall, he
scratched a match, and entering the back room, soon had the lamp burning
once more.
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