“Looks like he understands,” said the old man, reaching for the leash and taking the bight of it from Mr. Howbridge’s hand. “Good dog! Now, go to it. These here footprints—if that’s what they are—are fillin’ in fast.”
Tom Jonah put his nose to the marks in the snow. He sniffed, threw some of the light snow about with his nose, and started off. He followed the faint trail into the woods. But Neale doubted if the dog followed by scent.
Once in the thicket the marks were only visible here and there. The fresh snow was sifting down faster and faster. The dog leaped from one spot to another, whining, and eagerly seeking to pick up the scent.
“It’s awful unlucky this here snow commenced as it has. Hi! I don’t see what we can do,” sighed Ike.
“Do you really believe those marks were the twins’ footsteps?”
“I do. I believe they was in the house when your folks came, Mr. Howbridge,” M’Graw said. “But now—”
Tom Jonah halted, threw up his shaggy head, and howled mournfully.
“Oh, don’t, Tom Jonah!” cried Neale O’Neil. “It sounds like—like somebody was dead!”
“Or lost, eh?” suggested Ike. “Ain’t no use. He—nor a better dog—couldn’t follow a scent through such snow. We’re too late. But I’d like to know where them children went, if these is them!”
They turned back toward the Lodge, rather disheartened. If the two Birdsall children, who had been left to the care of Mr. Howbridge, were really up here alone in the wilderness—and perhaps shelterless at this time—what might not happen to them? What would be the end of this strange and menacing situation?