“If I’m mistaken, we shall have to try back,” answered Jarvis. “Of course, it is just possible we are on a false scent. Ah! what is this?” The speaker pointed significantly to some drops of blood upon the straw in front of the barn. “What say you to that?”
“Blood, without a doubt,” observed the constable.
“That’s where they laid him down when they opened the barn door.”
“Ah!—dare say—most likely.”
The villagers were open-mouthed with wonder. They, one and all, voted the soldier a necromancer.
The doors were flung wide open, and they sprang over the rack into the body of the barn. There had been some threshing done the day before, and there was a vast heap of chaff just outside.
While they were gazing around, a low moan, as of one in pain, fell upon their ears.
“Keep quiet, lads,” exclaimed Jarvis; “leave this matter to me and the constable. Keep where you are. We can none of us tell what next will happen.”
“Here’s footmarks on the chaff, and blood on it also,” said the constable, who took a few steps further inside, whereupon his eyes lighted on the prostrate figure of a man lying in the corner on a heap of straw.
He flashed his bull’s-eye on the face of the wounded burglar, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.