“That boat did not leave there so very long ago,” came Ranville's comment, as we all looked at the impression. “There is a slight breeze on the lake, the water is lapping against the shore, and in an hour that impression in the mud will be all smoothed out.”
Bartley nodded, then bent over the bank to study the impression. He rose with a very perplexed look on his face and began to go slowly over the near-by grass. Suddenly he stopped and turned quickly.
“That's not all, Ranville. The man in the boat got one foot in the water when he got out. You can see the dirt where it fell from the edge of the bank. But when he came back, he had something with him—something heavy. Maybe he carried it, but he had to half drag it into the boat. Look,” and he pointed to the bank.
There, a little away from the spot where the impression was in the mud, were two places a foot apart—places where the grass was tangled and matted, and where the bank itself was broken down. It did look as though something had been dragged over the bank to the boat. As Bartley looked, his face grew very white, and I saw his hands open and close. He turned to Patton, and his voice was crisp as he shot out:
“Patton, that was not your magazine we found in the library.”
Patton shook his head. He might have replied, but Bartley gave him no time. The voice was insistent as he asked:
“You said the girl—the secretary—was to return to the library and work an hour?”
“Why, yes; she went to supper and was to come about six and work until seven. Carter told me we were to eat at seven.”
“And you never saw her again after she left?”
“Oh, yes, I did,” was Patton's unemotional answer. “Yes, I did. I saw her going up the street toward Warren's when I was in the tobacco store. If I had not stopped to talk for a few moments, I would have been able to catch up with her. Why, what's the matter?”