“I don't care, you understand, Bill. I 'll go where I'm ordered. But if you _will_ go on trusting that compass of yours, don't you think maybe we'd better be thinking about saving up what sandwiches we've got left? These Michigan woods _ain't_ a very cheerful spot to spend the fall, unless you've planned that way, you know,--brought tents and things, and maybe a little canned stuff.” “Oh, go to----!” muttered Beveridge, without turning. “What's that you said?” Wilson was on his feet. Here Smiley broke in with the suggestion that they try marking trees. And for an hour they were tearing their shirts to strips, and sighting forward from tree to tree; then the early twilight began to settle on the forest. They spoke of it no more, but pushed on feverishly under the leadership of Beveridge, whose spirits, which had reached low-water mark in the difference with Wilson, were flowing again. From rapid walking they took to running; still the twilight deepened. Finally the uneven ground and the deep shadows led them into scratches and tumbles, and they were obliged to stop. “Bill,” said Wilson, “look over there.” “Where?” “That tree--runs up six feet or so, and shoots off over the ground, and then turns square up again.” “Yes. What about it?” A queer sound was creeping into the special agent's voice. “Don't you remember--about three o'clock--the tree we passed? Harper said it was exactly like a figure four, because of the broken part that stuck up above the branch,--and you said--” “Well, but--” “Just take a good look at it.” Beveridge stepped a little way forward and looked and looked. “Well?” Beveridge was silent. His eyes left the tree only to fix themselves on the ground. “What do you think, Bill?” Instead of replying, the special agent turned abruptly and walked away through the brush. He soon disappeared, but his assistant could hear him thrashing along. In a few moments he returned, and without a word set about building a fire. They all lent a hand, and soon were sitting around the blaze, moody and silent. “Say, boys,”--it was Smiley speaking up,--“I have an idea. Let me take your compass a minute, Beveridge.” There was no reply. Smiley thought he had not been understood. “Let's have your compass, Beveridge.” Then the special agent looked up. “If you can find it, you're welcome to it,” he said. “Why, you haven't lost it?” “If you've got to know, I've thrown it.” “The------you have!” A moment's silence. Somewhere off in the wilderness a twig crackled, and they all started. Harper's scalp tingled during the long stillness that followed the sound. “What did you do that for?” asked Smiley. “Because we're sitting at this moment within a hundred feet of where we sat at three o'clock this afternoon.”