For several minutes he gazed steadily at those distant glowing patches. His narrowed eyes became steely in this concentration. A fine, inspiring figure of a scout, baffled and yet resolved, he made as he stood there. Suddenly some little creature of the woodland made a sound in its nightly prowling and the boy turned with lightning rapidity, listening fearfully. Then he resumed his study of the distant patches of light. He was vivisecting them at long distance, comparing the flickering movements one with another. "I'll be--Those aren't two fires," said he. "There's only one. The other's just a reflection. The two of them move alike." It was not so bad for a boy who was not a scout. Still, when this boy set about doing a thing he usually succeeded. The very night before he had essayed to do a daring thing, a dreadful thing. And he had succeeded. CHAPTER III EARS THAT HEAR It was a desperate business, but he had succeeded--so far. He was not going to jeopardize his success now by an ill-considered move. So he resolved to rest on the bench till the last distant flicker disappeared and he could feel certain that every one in camp had retired. Then he would follow the path down through the woods. He removed his hat and took an empty cigarette box from inside the crown. There were no cigarettes left in it, but a certain devilish instinct of caution had prompted him to save the little pasteboard folder with removable matches that had accompanied his forbidden purchase. Then he took off a shoe and withdrew from it a damp and soiled slip of paper containing a memorandum which he read by the light of a match. _Martha Norris Memorial Cabins. Up path from fire turn left--second cabin_. He knew the words by heart, but scanned them finally before crumpling the paper and throwing it away. As he dropped it under the bench he saw a little square of white lying on the ground and picking it up found it to be an unopened letter. It was close to one of the legs of the bench and almost at the foot of the post supporting the mail box. He struck another match and read the typewritten address on the envelope: _Temple Camp, Black Lake, Greene Co., New York_. In the corner was an imprint: _Bently's Family Hotel, Wave Crest City, Florida_. He now made a discovery which was destined to give a turn to his fortunes and start an altogether singular series of adventures. He found that the heavy dew had dampened the envelope and melted the glue of the flap so that the envelope lay limp and open in his hand. He could not forbear to examine a missive which lay thus exposed. The thought occurred to him that the letter could not have lain long on the ground without being discovered by those who frequented the spot. It had probably been brought by the rural carrier that very afternoon and dropped by the messenger who had emptied the box to take its contents down to camp. In the dim light of his few remaining matches, he read the letter.