“And Peter Northrop,” I added. “Do you suppose it’s possible that these footprints are his? Whoever he was, he was evidently here. He was here in the hunting season; he promised to send ducks to his mother. All right; he knew the bunch here; he would be interested in reading about the old man’s death; he took the article. Might that fellow, whoever he was, be loitering around here for some reason or other? He might be back here for some purpose. Isn’t that so?”
“Why sure,” said Tom; “that’s what I was coming to.”
“How did he know that a little folded up bit of paper sticking in the door jamb, was of any interest?” Brent asked.
“It was taken away, wasn’t it?” snapped Tom.
“If he took it, it was because he was looking for it,” said Brent.
“All right,” snapped Tom, rising and pacing back and forth in his mounting enthusiasm, “that’s as may be. But here’s the point; we’re pretty sure now there were four people here instead of three—Brent has established that.”
“You flatter me,” said Brent.
“The old man, his son, Weston, and a fellow named Peter Northrop.”
“We’re not sure of that, but it’s a pretty good surmise,” said Brent.
“Now then,” said Tom, “the old man and his son are eliminated. There were two others. Somebody who has a peculiar interest in this place, and doesn’t want it known, has been about here. We don’t know anything about Weston, but he’s the one who accidentally shot young McClintick, and I shouldn’t think he’d ever want to see this place again. Northrop hasn’t been home since. Do you suppose he could be around here now for some reason or other?”