"But of course it's possible that McGuire and this John Bray could have met in New York——"
"What would Mr. McGuire be doin' with him?" she said scornfully.
Peter laughed.
"It's what he's doing with McGuire that matters."
"I don't believe it's Bray," said Beth confidently. "I don't believe it."
They had reached a spot where the underbrush was thin, and Beth, who had been looking past the tree trunks toward the beginnings of the lawns, stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing upon some object closer at hand.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing.
Peter followed the direction of her gaze. On a tree in the woods not far from the path was a square of cardboard, but Beth's eyes were keener than Peter's, and she called his attention to some writing upon it.
They approached curiously. With ironic impudence the message was scrawled in red crayon upon the reverse of one of Jonathan McGuire's neat trespass signs, and nailed to the tree by an old hasp-knife. Side by side, and intensely interested, they read:
TO MIKE McGUIRE