He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence.
"I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six."
A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room.
"I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time."
He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door.
The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate
them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute.
When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically.
There were only three lines:
I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night.