“That’s how it looks to me. Bear off this way, sir.”
Henley strode away to the left and plunged through the bushes and underbrush, Nick following, with Ginger bringing up in the rear.
Ten minutes brought them in sight of the pond, shut in on all sides by a thick belt of woods, and Nick followed his uncouth guide down to the edge of it and to the spot he was seeking, a lonely and suitable place enough for such a crime as superficially appeared to have been committed.
“Here’s the spot,” cried Henley, pointing to some trampled shrubs and underbrush. “There’s the log where Ginger nosed out the girl’s hat and jacket. They were rolled up and thrust under it, then partly covered with dirt and leaves.”
“Yes, yes, I see.”
“Here’s blood on the bushes, and footprints in the ground and dry leaves, as if the girl put up a fight to save herself from——”
“Stop a moment,” said Nick, intently viewing the evidence mentioned. “I want to compare these shoes with the imprints.”
“Gordon’s shoes?”
“Yes. The button boots belong to the girl. She left them in a house where she has been boarding.”
“You went there after them?” questioned Henley, with sinister scrutiny.