“Leave it to Ginger.”
“You mean——”
“Ginger will show you,” Henley cut in. “He can trail him like breaking sticks. He’s some dog. Mr. Carter, some dog. Wait a bit and I’ll show you. Gimme one of Gordon’s shoes.”
“By Jove, that’s a good idea, Henley.” Nick cried, as if he had not thought of it. “He can get the scent from this, perhaps, as you suggest. I ought to have been wise to that.”
“Here you, Ginger, come here,” Henley growled harshly. “Come here, you rascal.”
The hound bounded through the bushes and cringed at his master’s feet.
Henley seized him by the scruff of the neck and held to his nostrils the shoe the detective had given him, then pointed to the larger of the imprints in the ground.
“Get after him, Ginger!” he commanded, producing a leather strap and hooking it to the dog’s collar. “Follow him up! After him, Ginger, you rascal!”
The hound brightened up and appeared to know what was wanted. He began to bark, until Henley cuffed him fiercely, and then he thrust his muzzle to the ground, whining and eagerly tugging hard on the leather leash.
Henley seized his shotgun from the ground where he had placed it, crying gruffly: