Instinctively, like the sleuth-hound that he was, Dunbar peered into the bushes, and the first object upon which his sharp eyes rested was a key. He uttered an exclamation of surprise at sight of it.
“I believe it is the key to the gate!” he exclaimed.
Then he picked it up and fitted it into the lock of the gate.
The key was the first thing that Doctor Danton had missed—the first cause for suspicion that something was wrong. So it was correct—this suspicion. Some one had locked the gate and thrown the key into the bushes, for the purpose, no doubt, of retarding the search for the carriage and its probable occupant.
The detective’s eyes lighted up with an eager light. Had he struck the right trail? Was he on the road to success? He did not dream of the obstacles which were destined to loom up in his way as the hours went by; but, like a true detective, he welcomed all such obstacles for the simple pleasure of overcoming them.
“I will follow the tracks of the carriage-wheels,” he decided. “It is very early, and in this secluded spot no other vehicle has passed this morning, I feel sure. At all events, it is the only course left me to pursue.”
He passed his arm through the bridle and led his horse slowly on, while he searched anxiously down the road, following the freshly made wheel-tracks.
And so, on, on, he went, slowly and laboriously, mile after mile. His eyes shone with the light of hope.
“It is plain that Doctor Danton’s carriage did not go home until it had first taken a trip somewhere,” he concluded, astutely. “The more I think of it, the plainer does it appear that somebody drove it away. Those horses never ran away, in the living world!” he ejaculated.
On, on, he went; and so, at last, he reached the stream and the little bridge. It was very early, the road unfrequented, no signs of a passer-by. In fact, no one had passed upon that side of the stream since Gilbert Warrington had crossed and had driven Doctor Danton’s horses home.