They were off, tugging at the leash, Kennedy with one and I with the other. Burke and Riley had come up by this time, post-haste from their search for Sanchez, and joined us.
Away across the lawn, through the shrubbery, the trail led us, over a fence until farther along through a break in the hedge we came upon the road. Together we four hastened out over the highway.
“There’s one thing in our favor,” panted Kennedy. “No car was used—at least not yet. And if one or even two are carrying her, we can go a great deal faster than they can.”
My dog, which seemed to be the more active of the two, was outrunning the other, and, not through any desire on my part, but through his sheer tugging at the leash, he kept me a few paces ahead of the rest.
The road which had been taken by the kidnappers bent around the head of the harbor, branching off at a little country store, closed since early in the evening. No help was to be expected there, and we followed the road which ran down through a neck of land that led to the harbor opposite Westport.
So accustomed had I become to the steady tug of the dog on his leash, that, as we passed a little brook, where it seemed the abductor had paused, I was surprised to feel his pull on my hand suddenly relax.
Before I knew it the dog had stopped. He uttered a peculiar wheeze—half sneeze, half gasp. Before I realized what it could be about he rolled over, as though he had been shot. It was not that he had lost the scent. Again and again, as he lay for the few seconds, gasping, he tried to pick up the trail.
As I watched him in utter astonishment I noticed a peculiar, subtle odor, with just the faintest suggestion of peach pits.
Kennedy, with more presence of mind than I had shown, drew up sharply on the leash of his dog, some feet behind me.
“Here, Burke,” he cried. “Hold him—well away. Don’t let him break loose.”