"There's only one of the chink, anyhow, pards," said McGlory, "and at least two pairs of feet walked through that pile of black stuff. One man wore shoes, and the other wore slippers. The slippers left marks a good deal like Ping's sandals, but the marks are too big for Ping. We'll find out a few things now, I reckon."
With eyes bent sharply on the floor, the cowboy crossed the kitchen into the hall, and then moved along the hall to a spot under the stairs.
The stairs were not enclosed, but sprang directly from the hall floor. In the angle formed by the flight and the floor the sooty trail vanished.
"Now what?" queried Burton. "It looks like we were up in the air as much as ever."
Without replying, McGlory drew his knife from his pocket, opened it, and went down on his knees.
[CHAPTER IX.]
MATT MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
Matt's pursuit of the street car reminded him of his old motor-cycle days in Arizona. The familiar hum of the twin cylinders between his knees carried his mind back to his ill-fated gasoline marvel, the Comet, in honor of which he had named the aëroplane he was using with the show.
The borrowed motor cycle had all the improvements, and the way it could run warmed the cockles of Matt's heart. In less than a minute after leaving Burton and the machine's owner, the king of the motor boys was shooting along the road like a bullet out of a gun.