“Oh, go to——!” muttered Beveridge, without turning.
“What's that you said?” Wilson was on his feet.
Here Smiley broke in with the suggestion that they try marking trees.
And for an hour they were tearing their shirts to strips, and sighting forward from tree to tree; then the early twilight began to settle on the forest. They spoke of it no more, but pushed on feverishly under the leadership of Beveridge, whose spirits, which had reached low-water mark in the difference with Wilson, were flowing again. From rapid walking they took to running; still the twilight deepened. Finally the uneven ground and the deep shadows led them into scratches and tumbles, and they were obliged to stop.
“Bill,” said Wilson, “look over there.”
“Where?”
“That tree—runs up six feet or so, and shoots off over the ground, and then turns square up again.”
“Yes. What about it?” A queer sound was creeping into the special agent's voice.
“Don't you remember—about three o'clock—the tree we passed? Harper said it was exactly like a figure four, because of the broken part that stuck up above the branch,—and you said—”
“Well, but—”