The spy, whoever he might be, must be found, though a week was spent in searching for him. Only for the beating rain, this would have been a comparatively easy matter, since the ground, clear to the hills, was very favorable for trailing.
Day broke clear and beautiful, and Duplin experienced a peculiar thrill of joyous thankfulness as he beheld the brilliant sun roll above the eastern swells. The sight gave him renewed life, and the last lingering trace of superstition vanished.
For hours the three friends sought in vain for some trace of their nocturnal visitor, but it was not until they crossed the first ridge that such rewarded their search. Then, deeply imprinted in the moist sandy loam, they came upon a double trail, though both sets of tracks were evidently made by the same person, probably in going and coming, as they trod different ways.
"It's our man," cried Jack, as he arose from comparing his tally with the tracker. "We must run him to ground, now. He can't be far—these tracks are fresh."
"But which are the latest?"
"That puzzles me. I'm not much on the trail-hunt. Chicot could tell, no doubt, but I can't. We must follow both. You and Wythe take that direction, and I'll look to this."
"But there may be danger to you going alone. We don't know who or what this fellow is. Best keep together."
"And so lose the game, like as not? No. I think I can hold my own, since there's only one man. Go on—and if you find the game, build a fire of grass that will send up a black smoke. I'll do the same. Look out for it."
It was rank folly attempting to reason with Tyrrel, and his comrades, well knew that. So parting—none of the trio dreamed of the time that would elapse before their meeting!—they each bent to their work.
The trail ran lengthwise along the valley, only divided from that where lay the golden bed by a high ridge. Duplin and Wythe were heading south-east; the trail followed by Tyrrel was in an opposite direction.