“That’s true. He vanished in a moment. Whilst I was looking at him he disappeared.”
“Vanished! Disappeared! You talk as though you thought it a ghost, Johnny.”
“Ghost be hanged! It was some ill-doing tramp, I expect, trying to look if he might steal into the house.”
“Much you know of the ways of tramps, Johnny Ludlow! Tramps don’t come showing themselves on snow-lighted, open lawns, in the face and eyes of the front windows: they hide themselves in obscure hedges and byways. It’s a case of headachy sleep, young man, and nothing else.”
“Look here, Tom. If the man was there, his footprints will be there; if he was not, as you say, the snow will be smooth and level: come out and see.”
We went out at once, Tom catching up a stick in the hall, and crossed the lawn. I was right, and Tom wrong. Sure enough, there were the footprints, plenty of them, indented in the deep snow. Tom gave in then.
“I wish to goodness I had seen him! The fellow should not have got off scot-free, I can tell him that. What tremendous feet he must have! Just look at the size, Johnny. Regular crushers.”
“Don’t you go and say again I was asleep! He must have stepped back and got away through these laurels; yes, here are the marks. I say, Tom”—dropping my voice to a whisper—“perhaps he’s here now.”
“We’ll soon see that,” said Tom Coney, plunging amidst the laurels with a crash, and beating about with the stick.
But there was no trace of him. Tom came out presently, covered with the beaten snow, and we went indoors; he veering round partly to his first opinion, and a little incredulous, in spite of the footprints.