“The pteranodon?” he queried. The mist was clearing from his brain, and his mind swung dizzily back to the great speculation.
“What does it all mean?” he groaned.
“There is the pteranodon!” And Colton laughed shakily as he pointed to the blood-smeared form lying quietly on the sand.
“But those footprints! Those footprints! The fossil marks on the rocks!”
“Footprints on the rock. Handprints here.”
“Handprints?” repeated the professor. “Tell me slowly, I implore you. I must confess to an unaccustomed condition of bewilderment.”
“No wonder. The juggler killed his men by knife-play. He lay hidden in the mouth of the gully, and threw the knife as they came along. After killing them he had to recover his knife. So he walked out upon his hands, leaving the marks which have puzzled us so.”
“But why?”
“He is coming to. We’ll ask him.”
In a few minutes “The Wonderful Whalley” was able to sit up and answer questions. All his rage seemed to have gone, and all his cunning. He was cowed and weak and indifferent.