In the silence which followed the soft, muffled sound of a wood-chopper’s axe drifted to their ears from the northern slope of Turkey Hill. Even the snow, which was now falling thickly, could be heard making an almost imperceptible rustling and whispering amid the bushes. Slowly Barker folded the red silk handkerchief and put it carefully away in a pocket.

“I think this will be sufficient evidence,” he said harshly; “but we may as well locate the contemptible whelp if we can, and I fancy we’ll find him with his pals at Lander’s camp. It won’t be possible to follow the snowshoe tracks more than two or three minutes longer, but he was certainly heading for that camp.”

“If we do find him, be careful with that gun of yours,” again warned Piper. “Don’t lose your head, Berlin, old man.”

“I’m not a fool,” returned Barker. “Come on.”

The snowshoe trail was soon obliterated, but the last faint tracks were plainly seen to be pointing toward the island in the heart of the swamp, and they pushed straight on. Finally the old camp came into view through the film of falling snow, and in a hoarse whisper Piper called attention to the fact that smoke was rising from the piece of rusty stovepipe which served as a chimney. With all possible caution the three trailers crept forward.

Not a sound came from within the camp; the smoking chimney was the only token which gave evidence that a human being had been there in many hours—possibly many days. After wasting some time in vain listening, Berlin suddenly made a bold move, advancing toward the door.

“Hello!” he muttered, stopping as the others came up behind him. “Look at this!”

There was a padlock on the door, securing it by means of a staple and clasp.

“My deduction is,” said Piper, “that the den is deserted and the miscreant flown.”

“He’s sus-skipped already,” said Springer.

Investigation revealed that the padlock was really locked. Then they peered in through the dingy window, and, their eyes after a time becoming accustomed to the gloomy interior, they saw beyond question that no living person was there.

“He hasn’t been gone long,” decided Barker disappointedly, “for the smoke proves that. There’s still a smoldering fire in the old stove.”

“Let’s bub-bust the door open and look the place over,” suggested Springer.

“Let me hasten to caution you against such a proceeding,” interposed Sleuth, as Barker seemed to hesitate. “The complete details of our morning’s work will doubtless be laid before the public eye, and we must take every precaution not to perpetrate any act that will rebound to our discredit. Let it not be said that, like the owner of this den of iniquity, we broke and entered.”

“It wouldn’t do any good, anyhow,” said Berlin. “We couldn’t learn anything further, and I feel certain I already have the proof that will nail the sneak fast.”

“What are you going to do about it?” questioned Phil.

“Do?” cried Barker. “I’m going to make him settle—handsomely. I’ll teach him he can’t shoot my dog without paying for it.”

“This will come pretty near fuf-fixing Mr. Grant for good around Oakdale. He’d better pull up stakes and get out.”

“He was practically fixed before this,” said Barker; “but this will certainly satisfy every doubter as to his character. Even Stone can’t have anything to say in his defense after this.”

By the time the swamp was left behind the snow was coming down in such an impenetrable mass that they could barely see a few feet in advance, and the wind was rising, forcing them to hold their heads down and bend forward as they breasted the storm.

“It’s going to be a ripper,” said Springer. “Winter came in early this year, and it’s sus-soaking it to us good.”

Down the Barville road they went, Barker silently planning his course of action toward Grant.

Until late in the afternoon the storm continued, the wind piling the snow in drifts; between three and four o’clock, however, it abated far more suddenly than it had begun. The wind died down, and the sun, setting beyond Turkey Hill, shot red gleams through a rift in the clouds, gilding the arrow-vane on the steeple of the Methodist church. Men and boys appeared everywhere with shovels, opening paths to houses and clearing the sidewalks. The loafers, who had spent the greater part of the day around the roaring stove in Stickney’s store, discussing national politics, high finance, and arguing vociferously over original methods for busting the trusts, gradually melted away until only two rheumaticky old codgers who could not wield shovels were left.

Even before the snow had ceased to fall, Rodney Grant was out and at work on the path leading to his aunt’s house, and, having begun thus early, he was able to complete the task before darkness came on. He had just disposed of the last shovelful when, straightening up, he perceived two persons plowing toward him, almost waist deep, along High Street. One was a tall, husky-looking man, and the other Rod recognized with some surprise as Berlin Barker. He flung the shovel to his shoulder and turned, but the voice of the man hailed him.

“Hold on, young feller! We want to see you a minute.”

His surprise redoubled, Grant dropped the blade of his shovel to the snow, leaned lightly on the handle and waited. The man he had often seen around Oakdale, but did not know his name. He fancied that Barker’s cold, grim face wore an expression of malignant, but repressed, triumph.

“You’re Rod Grant, old Aunt Kent’s nevvy, ain’t ye?” questioned the man, coming up.

“I am Rodney Grant, Miss Priscilla Kent’s nephew,” was the calm answer, although the man’s tone and Barker’s appearance forewarned the boy from Texas that something disagreeable was about to take place.

“I’ve got a few questions I want to ax ye, young man, and I advise ye to answer ’em truthfully.”

“Save your advice; I’m not in the habit of lying.”

Barker laughed shortly, sneeringly, and Rod was seized, as he had been scores of times before, by an intense and almost irresistible desire to lay hands on the fellow.

“All right,” said the man. “Now what I want to know fust is this: Did you go out gunnin’ early this morning?”

“Although I consider it none of your business, I’ll answer. I did not.”

“What? You didn’t? Now be keerful. Take keer. You’re li’ble to git yourself into a mess.”

“What’s the game, Mr. Man?” indignantly demanded Rod.

“You’ll find out purty quick. What did you do this morning, if you didn’t go out gunnin’?”

“I don’t mind telling you that I started to go fishing.”

“Fishin’? Ho! ho! Where was you goin’?”

“That also is none of your business, but I see no reason why I shouldn’t state truthfully that we started for Coleman’s Pond. We were going to cut holes and fish through the ice.”

“We? Who? Who was with ye?”

“Bunk Lander.”

“Didn’t you start out alone?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t you take a gun with ye?”

“No, sir.”

“Now hold on, hold on. Be keerful. You’re li’ble to git twisted.”

“Let me inform you, my friend, that you make me plenty tired. I don’t know what you’re driving at, but I do know that your insinuations that I am lying are insulting. There’s no reason why I should lie.”

“Mebbe not. Did you go over to Coleman’s Pond? That’s a right long distance; ’bout five miles or a little more.”

“No, we didn’t go over there.”

“Why not?”

“Because after we reached Lander’s camp, where we stopped a while, this storm began, and we decided it would be right foolish to attempt any fishing through the ice to-day.”

“H’m!” grunted the inquisitor skeptically. “Did the Lander boy have a gun with him?”

“No, sir.”

“How’d you happen to stop at his camp?”

“We went there for fishing tackle.”

“And built a fire?”

“Yes. We weren’t in any hurry and the place was cold, so Bunk started a fire.”

“H’m! You’ve got it fixed up purty well, ain’t ye?”

Rod felt his cheeks burn. “I don’t know what you mean, for there was nothing to fix up. I do know that you’re making me right sore with your questions and your nasty doubting manner, and I don’t propose to answer anything further until you inform me what all this is about. What are you driving at?”

The man reached into his pocket and brought forth a red silk handkerchief, which he offered to Rod.

“I guess you dropped this handkercher on your way, didn’t ye? It’s yourn, ain’t it?”

Grant took the handkerchief and looked at it. “Yes,” he replied, forgetting his determination to answer no more questions, “it’s mine.”