Chapter 7

Bridge, who had had no intention of deserting his helpless companions, appeared at last to yield reluctantly to their pleas. That indefinable something about the youth which appealed strongly to the protective instinct in the man, also assured him that the other's mask of criminality was for the most part assumed even though the stories of the two yeggmen and the loot bulging pockets argued to the contrary. There was the chance, however, that the boy had really taken the first step upon the road toward a criminal career, and if such were the case Bridge felt morally obligated to protect his new found friend from arrest, secure in the reflection that his own precept and example would do more to lead him back into the path of rectitude than would any police magistrate or penal institute.

For the girl he felt a deep pity. In the past he had had knowledge of more than one other small-town girl led into wrong doing through the deadly monotony and flagrant hypocrisy of her environment. Himself highly imaginative and keenly sensitive, he realized with what depth of horror the girl anticipated a return to her home and friends after the childish escapade which had culminated, even through no fault of hers, in criminal tragedy of the most sordid sort.

As the three held a council of war at the rear of the deserted house they were startled by the loud squeaking of brake bands on the road in front. Bridge ran quickly into the kitchen and through to the front room where he saw three men alighting from a large touring car which had drawn up before the sagging gate. As the foremost man, big and broad shouldered, raised his eyes to the building Bridge smothered an exclamation of surprise and chagrin, nor did he linger to inspect the other members of the party; but turned and ran quickly back to his companions.

"We've got to beat it!" he whispered; "they've brought Burton himself down here."

"Who's Burton?" demanded the youth.

"He's the best operative west of New York City," replied Bridge, as he moved rapidly toward an out-house directly in rear of the main building.

Once behind the small, dilapidated structure which had once probably housed farm implements, Bridge paused and looked about. "They'll search here," he prophesied, and then; "Those woods look good to me."

The Squibbs' woods, growing rank in the damp ravine at the bottom of the little valley, ran to within a hundred feet of the out-building. Dense undergrowth choked the ground to a height of eight or ten feet around the boles of the close set trees. If they could gain the seclusion of that tangled jungle there was little likelihood of their being discovered, provided they were not seen as they passed across the open space between their hiding place and the wood.

"We'd better make a break for it," advised Bridge, and a moment later the three moved