“Well,” Poetry said, “when did you last _look_ at it? When did you last have it _out_ of your pocket? Where were you when you _last_ saw it?” and I must confess that the last time I had seen the envelope was when we were still in the cabin. I had shoved it into my shirt pocket right beside where I kept my New Testament. When I told Poetry that, he said, “O.K., then, when did you last have your New Testament out of your pocket?” Say, I gasped out loud when he said that like that, for I remembered that I’d had my New Testament out of my pocket when I was on the porch of the old cabin John Till was in, and had been holding it in my hand while I was looking out across the very pretty terribly stormy lake. “You mean you haven’t looked at it since then?” Poetry asked me, astonished, and I said, “No.” I was astonished even at myself, but then of course we’d all decided not to tell the rest of the gang but to keep it secret for a while, so that explained why I hadn’t taken it out of my pocket. Eagle Eye hadn’t asked us to read any verses out of the Bible, so I hadn’t even thought of opening my New Testament. If I had, I would no doubt have noticed that the envelope was missing. “O.K., come on,” Poetry said. “Let’s get going,” which we did, swishing as fast as we could through the wet grass and along the path that was bordered by the still wettish bushes, although the late afternoon sun had dried things off quite a bit. Down the shore we went, past the boathouse, up the steep hill and along the sandy road, shining our flashlights on and off as we went. I carried with me a stout stick, just in case we ran onto anything or anybody that might need to be socked in order to save our lives. As we swished along in the moonlight, using our flashlights, I was glad there weren’t supposed to be any bears up here, and that where we were camping there weren’t supposed to be any wild animals except deer, polecats, raccoons, chipmunks and maybe a few other more or less friendly wild animals, all of which would be half scared to death if they saw us hurrying past carrying flashlights. When we came to the place where we had found the little Ostberg girl, we flashed our lights all around and on the tree Circus had climbed, and all around where my acrobatic goat’s fire-cracker had started the little fire which we had put out in a hurry. I even went over and picked up the empty prune can which the cannibals had left, and which the goats hadn’t eaten, and looked inside, knowing, of course, that the envelope wasn’t there. “We’d better follow the trail of broken twigs down to John Till’s cabin,” Poetry said. “Maybe it fell out of your pocket down there some place.”