“What was it?” asked Beals.
“It was a footprint!” replied Ned.
“Yeah, I saw a hundred of ’em,” drawled Dave Wilbur. “Half the dance crowd walked all over that stretch of sand.”
“The footprint I saw wasn’t made by a dancing shoe,” replied Ned. “It was made by a rubber sole.”
“That’s what we found outside Sam’s window!” cried Dick.
“And as nearly as I could see with the flashlight, it was a print of the same shoe,” was Ned’s calm response.
“Whew! If that’s a fact, why I feel like apologizing to Sam!” mumbled Tommy. “I don’t wonder he was scared!”
“What do you make of it, Ned?” asked Charlie Rogers.
Ned Blake turned and walked to the door to gaze with troubled eyes out upon the moonlit strip of sand, beyond which the line of scrubby oaks lay dim and shadowy. In a moment he again faced the group who were watching him curiously. “Fellows, there’s something I’ve got to tell you before we go any further with this business.” Ned paused as if to choose his words and continued. “We’ve been trying to find the answer to two questions, namely, who and why. The night Dave and I watched the old road I settled the first question, and the answer is—Latrobe!”
For a few minutes after this disclosure, the excited questioning kept Ned busy recounting such meager facts as were in his possession. “I don’t need to tell you fellows that any business we may try to carry on against Latrobe’s wishes is likely to be hard going—if not actually dangerous.” was Ned’s final comment.