"Ida!" he cried.
There was no answer.
"She—she's dead!" he shouted.
It was only too true. There was Ida Snedden, seated in Jackson's car in the old deserted building, all shut up—dead.
Yet her face was as pink as if she were alive and the blood had been whipped into her cheeks by a walk in the cold wind.
We looked at one another, at a loss. How did she get there—and why? She must have come there voluntarily. No one had seen any one else with her in the car.
Snedden was now almost beside himself.
"Misfortunes never come singly," he wailed. "My daughter Gertrude gone—now my wife dead. Confound that young fellow Garretson—and Jackson, too! Where are they? Why have they fled? The scoundrels—they have stolen my whole family. Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?"
Trying to quiet Snedden, at the same time we began to look about the building. On one side was a small stove, in which were still the dying coals of a fire. Near by were a work-bench, some tools, pieces of wire, and other material. Scattered about were pieces of material that looked like celluloid. Some one evidently used the place as a secret workshop. Kennedy picked up a piece of the celluloid-like stuff and carefully touched a match to it. It did not burn rapidly as celluloid does, and Craig seemed more than ever interested. MacLeod himself was no mean detective. Accustomed to action, he had an idea of what to do.
"Wait here!" he called back, dashing out. "I'm going to the nearest house up the road for help. I'll be back in a moment."