"Might have come out to smoke that rotten cigarette of his."
"I thought of that, but the coincidence of the time, and the direction of his outing, is hard to get over. Anyhow, we'll find out, we'll find out—don't worry."
They got out of their cramping positions behind the undergrowth and stepped out into the little glade. Barely had they done so when there came a loud cry from some distance ahead—and Jack knew the voice as well as his own.
It was Billy's voice.
"Help—help!"
Jack jumped about a foot in the air, and shot a sharp glance at Septimus Patch. "Jiminy!" he said, quickly, "that's old Billy—wonder what's up? Here—after him."
Symonds and Patch put their heads down and ran. Heedless of the undergrowth that set traps for their feet and that tore at them in the shape of thorn-bushes, they charged madly forward, and all at once Jack stopped and picked something up from the ground.
"Here—look at this!" It was Billy's cap, with the Deepwater College badge in the front of it; and Patch pulled up and glanced keenly at the ground with sharp eyes.
"A struggle—see?" he panted, pointing to the way the bracken had been tossed about and the turf trampled by heavy heels. "A struggle, and then—then—what happened?"
"Don't say he's been knocked on the head and dragged off," groaned Jack, looking about him helplessly. "Here, Patchie, have a look at these marks—what are they?"