“See if anybody there recognizes his horse,” says Mark, impatient-like.
Now there was a real idea, and I wished I’d thought of it myself, but I didn’t. It took Mark for that. When he missed thinking of a thing it was a pretty foggy day, I tell you.
Over at the livery we didn’t get much satisfaction.
“He hain’t never drove in with the same horse twict,” says the barn-man. “Sometimes it’s a gray, and sometimes it’s a bay, and last time it was a black.”
“Didn’t recognize any of ’em?” says Mark.
“Nary,” says the man.
And there we were, no better off than we’d been before. If those horses had come from anywheres within ten or fifteen miles of Wicksville that barn-man would have known them, so all we learned was that the Man With the Black Gloves must have come farther than that.
“If we could only trace those horses,” says Mark.
“Which way did he come from?” says I.
“Good for you, Binney,” says Mark. “That’ll help some, if we can f-f-find out.”