“I often wondered what became of him,” returned Randy. “With his money gone, I supposed he had had to go to work.”
“I’ll wager he and his father and the Martells, as well as the Werners, are as bitter as can be,” was Fred’s comment. “They would do almost anything to down us for the way things panned out in the oil fields.”
“Well, we weren’t responsible for their wells running dry,” asserted Andy. “They spent their money in their own way.”
“Yes, but they’ll always lay their failure at our door,” said Jack. “All of those chaps think their downfall due entirely to us.”
Most of this conversation took place after the boys had run around the farmhouse several times and looked behind various trees and bushes. Not a sign of a lurker could be found.
“Wait until I get a searchlight,” suggested Randy, and ran into the house for that article. When he reappeared the light was flashed on the sill of the window where the face of the intruder had appeared and also on the soft ground below.
“There are fingerprints on the wet sill!” cried Jack. “They must have been made since the rain stopped—otherwise they wouldn’t be so distinct.”
“And here are fresh footprints, too!” added Randy. “Some one was here, that’s sure.”
“If we were only fingerprint experts perhaps we could tell from them who the fellow was,” declared Fred.
“What’s the use of that? Martha and Mary both say it was Slugger Brown; and they certainly ought to know, they met Slugger often enough.”