Berlin made no reply.
Suddenly the snowshoe trail turned sharply off the path, and once more they found themselves pressing through tangled thickets. They came to a clearing, where there was a small, frozen, snow-buried pond, and there it was no small matter, even then, to follow that snowshoe trail.
“Five or ten minutes in the open, and he will have us bub-baffled,” muttered Springer.
“He was making for the big swamp back of Turkey Hill,” panted Piper from the rear. “There’s no shadow of doubt but he’s one of the three suspects we mentioned, Phil; and I’m dead sure I know which one.”
Once more they brushed and crashed through bushes and low-hanging branches. Finally, as they again came forth, Barker, amid a perfect tangle of brush, uttered a cry, pointing at something red which dangled from a branch.
“What is it?” questioned Springer.
“A handkerchief,” answered Berlin, securing it—“a silk handkerchief. Look here, fellows, I’ve seen this same handkerchief before. The chap we’re after must have been wearing it round his neck. He didn’t notice when it slipped off or was pulled off by catching on that bush.”
“Let me look,” begged Phil eagerly. “By jove! I’ve sus-seen it before myself! I saw it tied round the neck of a fellow only last Saturday.”
“That’s right,” nodded Berlin triumphantly. “I’m glad you were there, Phil; I’m glad you saw it, too. The name of the miserable sneak who owns this handkerchief is——”
“Rodney Grant,” finished Springer.