“The marks aren’t plain enough to decide that,” said Paul. “If there were dust or dirt here I could tell, but grass and weeds don’t take a good enough impression. The auto was put in the shed, evidently.”
That proved to be a good guess, for the marks of the big-tired wheels went up to the shed, which was roomy enough for a car.
“Yes, one’s been in here!” cried Jack, as he swung open the door. “See the tire marks on the boards.”
“Was it mine?” asked Cora, eagerly. But again the impression left was too faint to show the vulcanized patch.
“Maybe some autoists, caught out in a storm, put in here,” suggested Walter. “We mustn’t build up too hopeful a theory on a slender basis of fact.”
Traces of the automobile wheels were lost a short distance down the lane, and none appeared in the road which ran in front of the house—near which the highway did not seem to be much traveled.
“And now for the house itself,” said Jack. “Come on, boys!”
“And girls, too!” exclaimed Cora. “We’re not going to be left outside.”
They entered the old farmhouse, calling aloud to ascertain if in some distant room there might not be an occupant. But their voices were answered only by echoes, with which their footsteps mingled.
The house was typical of many another deserted farm residence, of which there are many throughout New England.