They had almost reached the crossroad when Harry stopped to examine a little hole in the ground, no larger in circumference than a broom stick. He stuck a twig into the hole, finding that it was about six inches deep.
“Locust hole?” asked Gordon, going over.
“Don’t think so,” Harry answered, pulling the grass carefully away from it. “It’s octagon-shaped, isn’t it? Let’s have a match.” He held the match down. “Humph, seems to go to a point, doesn’t it?”
They stood looking at each other.
“Morrel has an octagon-shaped staff, hasn’t he, Kid!”
Gordon’s face was an ample substitute for the recreant sun.
“We’ve found them! We’ve found them, Harry!” he shouted.
“Let’s sit down and think,” said Harry, quietly. “Kid, that crossroad ahead there would take us round under the mountain, under the precipice, and so into the woods below.”
“Harry, we’re on their trail!”
“You don’t call a hole in the ground a trail, do you? This is nothing but a poor, weak, sickly little apology for a clue. So don’t go up in the air. In the first place, has Morrel an octagon staff, or hasn’t he?”