“That’s so. He most likely was heading for the other road.”
“It looks so, for fair.”
“Ginger’ll trail him. Leave it to Ginger.”
The hound was plunging on all the while, with his muzzle to the ground, and was shaping a course through the woods and around the south side of the pond.
“Plainly enough, whoever planted this evidence wore the shoes Gordon had been wearing,” thought Nick, tramping rapidly on behind Henley. “That’s evidence enough, too, that he now is in the hands of this rascal’s confederates. It would be like Mortimer Deland not to overlook a point as essential as that. Where will the trail end? That’s the question.”
It then was, in fact, almost the only important question in Nick Carter’s mind. He felt that he had a cor[Pg 29]rect answer for all of the others. He was not left long in uncertainty, however, for the trail was not a very long one.
Ten minutes brought them to a narrow road on the south side of the pond, though a quarter mile from it, and the hound started off to the left without a moment’s hesitation.
Another eighth of a mile brought them to what evidently was an extensive private estate. There were low walls through the woods, and away off to the right could be seen at intervals, when the trees and foliage did not hide them, the white stones and monuments of a distant cemetery.
“Whose place is this, Henley?” Nick inquired, while both scrambled over a low wall over which the hound had leaped. “Do you know who owns this estate?”
“Sure I know,” growled Henley, over his shoulder. “I know every place in these parts.”