It took them a quarter of an hour to run him to earth, in George’s drawing-room. Then they led him back and repeated the process. It was like training a dog to find tennis-balls; the dog is willing enough to gaze for a space into the shrubbery, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what he is expected to find inside it. Guy found himself in an even worse position than that of the dog’s master, for he was precluded from giving an intimation that there was anything to be found at all. Having gazed respectfully at the footprints a second time, Alan announced that they certainly were top-hole and took himself back to the drawing-room and daredevilry. Mr. Doyle retrieved him five minutes later with a resigned expression and led him back once more. This time the two did not leave things quite so much to chance. They pointed out to each other with bland surprise that Mr. Foster must have had a tear in the soles of one of his boots; they remarked that it might be quite interesting to look around for other such footprints with a tear in one of the soles; they obtusely ignored a string of such prints leading from the flower-bed towards the library, and another leading from the latter to the bank. Then they observed loudly that they were going in for a short time to have a smoke in George’s drawing-room in the absence of Dora, who was upstairs making her bed, her bed, upstairs making her _bed_! They went, and through the curtains of the window peeped out upon their victim. Fixity of purpose does occasionally meet with its reward. Alan having absorbed the information that Dora was no longer on view, began to walk aimlessly about, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. They saw him stop suddenly and stoop. He progressed slowly in a bent position. He crawled like a crab towards the library windows, and thence to the bank. He ran swiftly across the garden and through the separating gate. Guy and Mr. Doyle, timing things to a nicety, met him half-way across George’s lawn. “I _say_,” said Alan, “I’ve made the hell of a discovery!” “Oh?” said Guy. “Really?” said Mr. Doyle. “But talking of emigration, Nesbitt, I do think that the Government——” “Listen, you chaps! You know what you were saying about footprints just now? Well, dashed if I haven’t——” “Footprints?” said Guy vaguely. “Were we?” “Good Lord, yes; you know you were. About that chap Foster having a bit out of one of his boots. You know. Well, I’ve spotted tons of other prints just the same. Do you know what I think, Guy? I think Foster’s one of ’em!” “One of whom, Alan?” Guy asked in maddeningly tolerant tones. “The gang, of course. Stands to reason. Come and have a squint. On the bank, his footprints are, up to the library, all round. I——” “Is Alan often taken like this, Guy?” asked Mr. Doyle rudely. “Foster!” Guy laughed in a superior way. “Come, Alan, come. You’ll be saying he’s the Man with the Broken Nose next.”