“Got to lug him along with us, too, I s’pose?” he grunted. “Can’t leave him here.”
“Get a stone,” commanded Hegan—“a big one. Tie it around his neck. Then drop him down the well.”
Gates groped around the steps until he found one of the old-time door stones, and in another minute or so this was firmly affixed to Buff’s collar by a stout rope. As Gates picked up the heavy dog and carried him puffingly to the well the telephone bell rung.
Tossing dog and stone over the well curb, Gates bolted for the house in sudden fright. Hegan had already gone into the hall, and was lifting the instrument from its table.
“Hallo!” he grunted in a stifled voice as he motioned Gates to silence.
His face cleared, and he made answer to the query at the far end:
“Yep, this is Michael Trent. Yes? No, I won’t be here. Nope. I’m just starting off on a motor trip up country. I may go a couple of thousand miles before I get back. Maybe I won’t ever come back. I’m dead sick of this hole. Yep. Good-bye.”
He hung up the receiver.
“Corking good alibi!” he chuckled gleefully. “Some feller that Trent sold some sheep to to-day. Don’t seem to know Trent well. Didn’t suspicion the voice. Now, when Trent and his car are missing, nobody’ll ask nosey questions. Come along!”
They hurried to the barn, backed the laden car out, and drove away into the night.