For a moment the three men stared at each other without speaking.
“What does it mean?” almost whispered Carpenter.
“Mean? Foul play!” snarled Thorpe. “Come on, Tim.”
The two struck into the brush, threading the paths with the ease of woodsmen. It was necessary to keep to the high inland ridges for the simple reason that the pole trail had by now become impassable. Wallace Carpenter, attempting to follow them, ran, stumbled, and fell through brush that continually whipped his face and garments, continually tripped his feet. All he could obtain was a vanishing glimpse of his companions' backs. Thorpe and his foreman talked briefly.
“It's Morrison and Daly,” surmised Shearer. “I left them 'count of a trick like that. They wanted me to take charge of Perkinson's drive and hang her a purpose. I been suspecting something—they've been layin' too low.”
Thorpe answered nothing. Through the site of the old dam they found a torrent pouring from the narrowed pond, at the end of which the dilapidated wings flapping in the current attested the former structure. Davis stood staring at the current.
Thorpe strode forward and shook him violently by the shoulder.
“How did this happen?” he demanded hoarsely. “Speak!”
The man turned to him in a daze. “I don't know,” he answered.
“You ought to know. How was that 'shot' exploded? How did they get in here without you seeing them? Answer me!”