He and Smith stood looking after the five slouching figures moving away toward their blind trails. When all had disappeared: "Show me Jake's mark," he said calmly. Smith led him to the edge of the bog, knelt down, drew aside a branch of witch-hopple. A man's footprint was plainly visible on the mud. "That's Jake," said Clinch slowly. "I know them half-soled boots o' hisn." He lifted another branch. "There's another man's track!" "The other is probably Leverett's." "Likely. He's got thin feet." "I think I'd better go after them," said Smith, reflectively. "They'll plug you, you poor jackass--two o' them like that, and one a-settin' up to watch out. Hell! Be you tired o' bed an' board?" Smith smiled: "Don't you worry, Mike." "Why? You think you're that smart? Jest becuz you stuck up a tourist you think you're cock o' the North Woods--with them two foxes lyin' out for to snap you up? Hey? Why, you poor dumb thing, Jake runs Canadian hootch for a livin' and Leverett's a trap thief! What could _you_ do with a pair o' foxes like that?" "Catch 'em," said Smith, coolly. "You mind your business, Mike." As he shouldered his rifle and started into the marsh, Clinch dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder; but the young man shook it off. "Shut up," he said sharply. "You've a private war on your hands. So have I. I'll take care of my own." "What's _your_ grievance?" demanded Clinch, surprised. "Jake Kloon played a dirty trick on me." "When was that?" "Not very long ago." "I hadn't heard," said Clinch. "Well, you hear it now, don't you? All right. All right; I'm going after him." As he started again across the marsh, Clinch called out in a guarded voice: "Take good care of that packet if you catch them rats. It belongs to Eve." "I'll take such good care of it," replied Smith, "that its proper owner need not worry." II The "proper owner" of the packet was, at that moment, on the Atlantic Ocean, travelling toward the United States. Four other pretended owners of the Grand Duchess Theodorica's jewels, totally unconscious of anything impending which might impair their several titles to the gems, were now gathered together in a wilderness within a few miles of one another. Jose Quintana lay somewhere in the forests with his gang, fiercely planning the recovery of the treasure of which Clinch had once robbed him. Clinch squatted on his runway, watching the mountain flank with murderous eyes. It was no longer the Flaming Jewel which mattered. His master passion ruled him now. Those who had offered violence to Eve must be reckoned with first of all. The hand that struck Eve Strayer had offered mortal insult to Mike Clinch.