It was quite late in the afternoon when, at last, people came from the town and took away both the body of Mrs. Snedden and Jackson's car. Snedden could only stare and work his fingers, and after we had seen him safely in the care of some one we could trust Kennedy, MacLeod, and I climbed into MacLeod's car silently.
"It's too deep for me," acknowledged MacLeod. "What shall we do next?"
"Surely that fellow must have my pictures developed by this time," considered Kennedy. "Shoot back there."
"They came out beautifully—all except one," reported the druggist, who was somewhat of a camera fiend himself. "That's a wonderful system, sir."
Kennedy thanked him for his trouble and took the prints. With care he pieced them together, until he had several successive panoramas of the country taken from various elevations of the parachute. Then, with a magnifying-glass, he went over each section minutely.
"Look at that!" he pointed out at last with the sharp tip of a pencil on one picture.
In what looked like an open space among some trees was a tiny figure of a man. It seemed as if he were hacking at something with an ax. What the something was did not appear in the picture.
"I should say that it was half a mile, perhaps a mile, farther away than that grove," commented Kennedy, making a rough calculation.
"On the old Davis farm," considered MacLeod. "Look and see if you can't make out the ruins of a house somewhere near-by. It was burned many years ago."
"Yes, yes," returned Kennedy, excitedly; "there's the place! Do you think we can get there in a car before it's dark?"