With his map on his knees Henry traced the way. Speedily they passed through the built-up portion of Brooklyn and came shortly to the sparsely settled district through which their road ran. Henry scanned the way with curious interest. He had been over the road but he knew nothing of what he had passed. Occasionally they whirled by a tree close to the road that Henry thought he had glimpsed in the darkness. So they flew forward until Henry, looking eagerly ahead, cried out, "There are the lumber piles."
The driver slowed his car almost to a walk and they looked in the dust for telltale marks. Few teams had passed since Henry's adventure, and in the dust could still plainly be seen the marks of Henry's wheel as he had turned sharply into the field, and the narrow tracks of the vehicle that had almost run him down.
But Henry was more interested in marks of another sort. "There!" he cried suddenly. "See those tracks? They're the marks of the spy's roadster." And he pointed to parallel tread marks, one made by a chain tread tire and one by a diamond tread.
They passed on. Not many hundred yards distant was an opening in the fence. "That's the place he turned off," insisted Henry. "See that light place where I shaved the post?"
But they did not turn into the field. Instead the motor-car continued steadily on its way. A half mile up the highway was a road-house known to the driver.
"It's about eleven o'clock now," said the secret service man. "We'll have luncheon at the roadhouse and in the meantime we can stroll around and hunt up this wireless plant. We'd attract too much attention if we drove directly into the field."
They stopped at the road-house, ordered luncheon, and said they would stroll about until noon. Then they wandered, apparently aimlessly, about the place and into the fields. The country was nearly level, with slight depressions here and little hillocks there, and bits of woodland all about. The road-house was the only structure in sight, and when they had passed beyond a slight elevation, even this was hidden. Apparently there was not a soul in the neighborhood. They paused just inside a little grove and made sure that no one was following them from the road-house. Then they pushed rapidly on into the little thicket which Henry recognized as his hiding-place of the previous night.
After a moment's search, Henry found the mark he had made in the turf. "The motor-car was in that direction," he explained, pointing along his turf mark.
His fellows looked in the direction of his outstretched arm. At a distance of a quarter of a mile was a thick little grove. Henry was pointing straight at the heart of it.
The scouts had kept themselves well hidden in the thicket as Henry was finding his mark. If any one was in the wood, that person could not as yet see them.