"On our left. We'll look there first, anyhow, though if we find no signs I'll turn the other way,
for I might have been mistaken. Watch sharp, now, Jack."
The light of the lantern soon showed them what Paul had expected to find. The plain print of a pneumatic rubber tire was seen, turning abruptly off the road, and running into the scrub alongside.
"Here, what do you make of that?" he asked, a tinge of triumph in his voice.
"The mark of tires as sure as anything," replied Jack, bending down the better to examine the imprint. "From the way they show up you can see it was no ordinary bicycle that made the trail, but something heavier. Yes, it was Ward on his motorcycle. But you didn't hear the popping of the machine, did you?"
"For a good reason," returned Paul, immediately. "You see the road descends for some distance, and he had just got over a long coast when he turned this bend. The engine was shut off."
"But the machine isn't here now?" continued Jack.
"Of course not," Paul admitted. "But any one with half an eye can see where he rolled it along here back of the brush, returning to where he came from. If we followed it a little way, we'd be sure to find that he hurried back up the
road, pushing his machine, and in time stopped the rest of the bunch as they came along."
"Well, that proves one thing then; they know where we are in camp," observed Jack, with a serious expression on his face; for he understood Ted Slavin's tactics of old, and could easily guess what might follow.