The flame scorched Billy’s fingers, and he dropped the match, which, a bent and glowing coal, floated zigzagging and spiraling downward, burst into bits as it struck, and died out.
Some one behind Piper drew a long breath. “I don’t reckon he’s here, after all,” said the voice of Grant.
“There’s something white lying on the floor,” declared Billy, with suppressed excitement. “I saw it just as I dropped the match.”
Lighting another, he stepped forward and picked the thing up. It was a damp cloth, and with it in his hand he retreated into the moonlight outside.
“What is it? What is it?” questioned the boys, pressing around him.
Billy held it up. “Looks to me like a wet towel that had been wound round something and fastened into place with safety pins,” he said. “That’s what it is, too. Fellows, Hooker may not be here now, but he has been here—he certainly has. This proves it.”
“How do you make that out?” asked Osgood, doing his best to appear as calm as would seem consistent.
“This towel proves it,” reiterated Piper. “It couldn’t come here without being brought, could it?”
“No; but I don’t see——”
“It’s wet. It’s the very towel that was used to hold the ice compress on Roy’s head.”