A few moments later Dick Prescott guided the horse down a shaded lane.  “Whoa!” he called, and got out.

“What, now?” questioned Darrin, as his chum began to hitch the horse to a tree.

“I’m going to prowl over by the bend, and see who’s there and what they are doing.”

Having tied the horse, Dick turned and nodded to his friend to walk along with him.

“You know Bradley told us,” Prescott explained, “that the police do not know that Dodge’s disappearance has leaked out to the press.  Most folks in Gridley know that I write for ‘The Blade.’  So I’m in no hurry to show up among the searchers.  I intend, instead, to see what they’re doing.  By going quietly we can approach, through that wood, and get close enough to see and hear without making our presence known.”

“I understand,” nodded Darrin.

Within two or three minutes the High School reporter and his chum had gained a point in the bushes barely one hundred and fifty feet away from where two men and a boy, carrying between them two lanterns, were closely examining the ground near the bank.  One of the men was Hemingway, who was a sort of detective on the Gridley police force.  The other man was a member of the uniformed force, though just now in citizen’s dress.  The boy was Bert Dodge, son of the missing banker, and one of the best football men of the senior class of Gridley High School.

“It’s odd that we can’t find where the trail leads to,” the eavesdroppers heard Hemingway mutter presently.

“I’m afraid,” replied young Dodge, with a slight choke in his voice, “that our failure is due to the fact that water doesn’t leave any trail.”

“So you think your father drowned himself?” asked Hemingway, looking sharply at the banker’s son.

“If he didn’t, then some one must have pushed him into the river,” argued Bert, in an unsteady voice.

“And I’m just about as much of the opinion,” retorted Hemingway, “that your father left his hat and coat here, or sent them here, and didn’t even get his feet wet.”

“That’s preposterous,” argued the son, half indignantly.

“Well, there is the spot, right there, where the hat and coat were found.  Now, for a hundred feet away, either up or down stream, the ground is soft.  Yet there are no tracks such as your father would have left had he taken to the water close to where he left his discarded garments,” argued Hemingway, swinging his lantern about.

“We’ve pretty well trodden down whatever footprints might have been here,” disputed Bert Dodge.  “I shan’t feel satisfied until daylight comes and we’ve had a good chance to have the river dragged.”

“Well, of course, it is possible you know of a reason that would make your father throw himself into the river?” guessed Officer Hemingway, with a shrewd glance at the son.

“Neither my mother nor I know anything about my father that would supply a reason for his suicide,” retorted Bert Dodge stiffly.  “But I can’t see any reason for believing anything except that my poor dad must now be somewhere in the river.”

“We’ll soon be able to do the best that we can do by night,” rejoined Hemingway.  “Chief Coy has gone after a gasoline launch that carries an electric search-light.  As soon as he arrives we’ll go all over the river, throwing the light on every part of the water in search of some further clue.  There’s no use, however, in trying to do anything more around here.  We may as well be quiet and wait.”

“I can’t stand still!” sounded Dodge’s voice, with a ring of anguished suspense in it.  “I’ve got to keep hunting.”

“Go ahead, then,” nodded the detective.  “We would, too, if there were anything further that could be looked into.  But there isn’t.  I’m going to stop and smoke until the launch heaves in sight.”

Both policemen threw themselves on the ground, produced pipes and fell to smoking.  But Bert Dodge, with the restlessness of keen distress, continued to stumble on up and down along the bank, flashing the lantern everywhere.

Presently Dodge was within sixty feet of where his High School mates crouched in hiding.

Suddenly the livery stable horse, some four or five hundred feet away, whinnied loudly, impatiently.

Natural as the sound was, young Dodge, in the tense state of his nerves, started and looked frightened.

“Wh-what was that?” he gasped.

“A horse,” called Hemingway quietly.  “Probably some critter passing on the road.”

“I wish you’d see who’s with that horse,” begged young Dodge.  “It may bring us news.  I’m going, anyway.”

With that, swinging the lantern, Bert Dodge started to cut across through the woods with its fringe of bushes.

Dave Darrin slipped away, and out of sight.  Before Dick could do so, however, young Dodge, moving at a fast sprint, was upon him.

Bert stopped as though shot when he caught sight of the other boy.

“Dick Prescott?” he gasped.

“Yes,” answered Dick quietly.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see what news there is about the finding of your father.”

Hemingway had now reached the spot, with the other policeman some yards to the rear.

“You write for ‘The Blade,’ don’t you?” challenged Bert.

“Yes,” Dick assented.

“And ‘The Blade’ people sent you here?” cried Bert Dodge, in a voice haughty with displeasure.

“Perhaps ‘The Blade’ sent me here,” Dick only half admitted.

“Sent you here to pry into other people’s affairs and secrets,” continued young Dodge impetuously.  Then added, threateningly: 

“Don’t you dare to print a word about this affair!”

Dick looked quietly at young Dodge.

“Did you hear me?” demanded Bert.

“Yes.”

“Then what’s your answer?”

“That I heard you, Bert.”

“You young puppy!” cried Dodge, advancing threateningly.  “Don’t you address me familiarly.”

“I don’t care anything about addressing you at all,” retorted Prescott, flushing slightly under the insult.  “At present I can make allowances for you, for I fully understand how anxious you are.  But that is no real excuse for insulting me.”

“Are you going to heed me when I tell you to print nothing about my father’s disappearance?” insisted young Dodge.

“That is something over which you really have no control,” Dick replied slowly, though not offensively.  “I take all my orders from my employers.”

“You young mucker!” cried Bert, in exasperation.  “You print anything about our family misfortunes, and I’ll thrash you until you can’t see.”

“I won’t answer that,” Dick replied, “Until you make the attempt.  But, see here, Dodge, you should try to keep cool, and as close to the line of gentlemanly speech and conduct as possible.”

“Stop!” roared Dick, his face reddening.  He advanced, his fists clenched.  “If you’re going to say anything against my father or mother, Bert Dodge, then stop before you say it!  Before I break your neck!”

“Stop, both of you,” interjected Hemingway, springing between the white-faced High School boys.  “No blows are going to be struck while members of the police department are around.  Dodge, of course, you’re upset and nervous, but you’re not acting the way a gentleman should, even under such circumstances.”

“Then drive that fellow away from here!” commanded Bert.

“I can’t,” confessed the officer.  “He is breaking no law, and has as much right to be here as we have.”

“Oh, he objects to my saying anything against his father or mother, but he’s out tonight to throw all manner of slime on my father’s name,” contended Bert Dodge.  His voice broke under the stress of his pent-up emotion.

“You’re wrong there, Dodge!” Dick broke in, forcing himself to speak calmly.  “I’m here to gather the facts on a matter of news, but I am not out to throw any insinuations over your father, or anyone whose good name is naturally precious to you.  Sometimes a reporter –­even an amateur one –­has to do things that are unpleasant, but they’re all in the line of duty.”

“‘The Blade’ won’t print a line about this matter,” raged Bert tremulously.  “Mr. Ripley is my father’s friend, and his lawyer, too.  Mr. Ripley will go to your editor, and let him know what is going to happen if that scurrilous sheet-----”

Here Bert checked himself, for Dick had begun to smile coldly.

“Confound you!” roared Bert Dodge.  He leaped forward, intent on striking the young junior down.  But Officer Hemingway pushed Dodge back forcefully.

“Come, come, now, Dodge, we won’t have any of that,” warned the officer.  “And, if you want my opinion, you’re not playing the part of a gentleman just now.  Prescott understands your state of mind, however.  He knows you’re so upset, your mind so unhinged by the family trouble that you’re doing and saying things that you’ll be ashamed of by daylight.”

“I suppose, next, you’ll be inviting this reported fellow to go on the boat with us when it comes,” sneered Bert Dodge.

“That would be for the chief to say.  Reporters are, usually, allowed to go with the police.  Come, come, Dodge,” urged Hemingway, laying a kindly hand on the young man’s shoulder, “calm down and understand that Prescott is not offering to make any trouble, and that he has been very patient with a young fellow who finds himself in a heap of trouble.”

“I can cut this short,” offered Dick quietly.  “I don’t believe it would be worth my while, Mr. Hemingway, to ask the chief’s permission to go on the boat with you.  ‘The Blade’ can find out, later, whether you discover anything on the river.”

“Where are you going, now?” demanded Bert unreasonably, as Prescott turned away.

“Back to the horse and buggy,” Dick replied coolly.

“Then I’m going with you, and see you start back to town,” asserted Bert Dodge.

Hemingway did not interfere, but, leaving his brother policeman at the river’s edge, accompanied young Dodge.  In a few minutes they arrived at the spot in the lane where Dick had tied the horse.  Here they found Dave Darrin seated in the buggy.  Dave glanced unconcernedly at them all, nodding to Hemingway way, who returned the salutation.

“Now, I’ll watch you start away from here,” snapped Bert.

“All right, then,” smiled Dick, climbing in, after unhitching, and picking up the reins.  “I won’t keep you long.”

With that, and a parting word to the policeman, Dick Prescott drove away.

“I saw Hemingway coming, and knew you wouldn’t need me,” Dave explained with a laugh.  “So, to save Bert a double attack of nerves, I slipped off in the darkness, and came here.  But what on earth ails Dodge, anyway?”

“Why, for one thing, he’s worried to death about the disappearance of his father,” replied Dick Prescott.

“I’ve seen people awfully worried before, and yet it didn’t make madmen of them,” snorted Darrin.

Dick hesitated.

“Well ?” Darrin insisted, rather impatiently.

“I’m half inclined to think that Bert Dodge has been leading the soreheads who sulk and won’t play football in the same team with some of us common fellows,” Dick laughed.  “If so, the very fact of my being sent to look into the news side of his father’s disappearance would make Bert feel especially sore at me.”

“By George, you’ve hit the nail right on the head there,” cried Dave.  “That’s the trouble.  Bert has been leading a kick that was aimed very largely at Dick & Co., and now it almost puts him out of his head to find that Dick Prescott, of all the fellows in the school, has been sent by ‘The Blade’ to gather the facts concerning Theodore Dodge’s mysterious disappearance –­or death.”

“Mr. Dodge isn’t dead,” replied Prescott slowly.

“What?  And say!  Do you realize, Dick, that you’re letting the horse walk?”

“I intended to,” returned Dick.  “Whoa!”

“There’s a boat coming up the river and showing a search-light,” broke in Dave, pointing.

“I saw it.  That’s why I stopped the horse.  It must be Chief Coy’s launch that he went after.  Yes; there it is, putting in where we first saw Bert Dodge and the officers.”

“Well, if you’re not going to keep track of the launch, why don’t you hit a fast gait for the office?” queried Darrin.

“There is plenty of time yet,” Dick replied, “and we’ve nothing to report to the office yet.  I’m just waiting for that boat to take on its passengers and get well away from the spot.”

“Oh!” guessed Dave.  “Then you’re going back and make your own search of the place?”

“You’re clever,” nodded Prescott, with a low laugh.  “Yes; it may be that Hemingway and his companion have made a fine search.  Or it may be that they’ve missed clues that a blind man ought to see.”

So the two High School boys sat there, in the buggy drawn up at the side of the road, for the next fifteen minutes.  In that time the launch took on the waiting passengers, and the light played over all that part of the river, then started down stream.

Dick slowly headed the horse about, this time driving much closer to the river’s bank than he had done before.

“There’s a lantern under the seat, Dave.  I saw it when we started from ‘The Blade’ office.  Haul it out and light it, will you?”

For some minutes the two High School boys searched without much result.  At last Dick and Dave began to move in wider circles, away from the much-tramped ground.  Then, holding the lantern close to the ground, Prescott moved nearer and nearer to the railway track, all the while scanning the soil closely.

“Narrow, pointed shoes, and rather high heeled for a man to wear,” Darrin answered.

“Exactly,” nodded Dick.  “Look there!”

Darrin bent down over a soft spot in the soil close to the railway roadbed.  There were three prints of just such a boot as he had described.

“You see the small heel print,” continued Prescott, in a whisper.  “And you note that the front part of the foot makes a heavy impression, as it would when the foot is tilted forward by a high heel.”

“I don’t believe another man in the town ever wore a pair of boots such as made these prints,” murmured Darrin excitedly.  “And they’re headed away from the river, toward the railroad!  And look here –­other footprints of a different kind!”

“You’re right!” cried Prescott, holding the lantern closer to the ground and scanning some additional marks in the soil.  “Coarse shoes; one pair of ’em brogans!  Mr. Dodge had companions when he went away from here.”

“They may have been forcing the man somewhere with them,” quivered Darrin, staring off into the black night about them.

“No; not a sign of a struggle,” argued Dick, still with his gaze on the ground.  “No matter who Mr. Dodge’s companions were, he went with them willingly.  Gracious, Dave, but we were right in believing the banker to be still alive!  Coat and hat at the water’s edge were a blind!  Mr. Dodge has his own reasons for wanting people to think him dead.  He has sloped away.  Here’s the track.  Which way did he and the fellows go?”

“Away from Gridley,” declared Darrin, sagely.  “Otherwise, Mr. Dodge would have been seen by some one who would remember him.”

“We’ll go up along the track, then.”

This they did, but the roadbed was hard.  Besides, anyone walking on the ties would leave no trail.  It was slow work, holding the lantern close to the ground and scanning every step, besides swinging the lantern out to light up either side of their course.  Yet both lads were so tremendously interested that they pushed on, heedless of the flight of time.

They had gone a mile or more up the track, “inching” it along, when they came upon an unmistakable print of Mr. Dodge’s oddly pointed boot and narrow, high heel.  They found, too, the print of a brogan within six feet of the same point.

“This is the way Dodge and his queer companions came,” exulted Dave.

“But I don’t believe they followed the track much further,” argued Prescott, pointing ahead at the signal lights of a small crossing station.  “If Mr. Dodge were trying to get away from public gaze he wouldn’t go by a station where usually half a dozen loungers are smoking and talking with the station agent.”

“We’re lucky to have the trail this far,” observed Dave Darrin.  “But we can’t follow it accurately at night.  Say –­gracious!  Do you know what time it is?  Half-past one in the morning!”

“Wow?” ejaculated Prescott, halting and looking dismayed.  “It’ll take us a good many minutes to get back to where we left the horse.  It’ll be after two o’clock when we hit ‘The Blade’ office.  Dave, we simply can’t follow the trail further tonight.  But we must strike it first thing in the morning.  It’ll be a big thing for ‘The Blade’ to be the folks to find the missing banker and clear the mystery up.”

“Unless Dodge just kept on until he came to one of the stations, and took a train.  Then the trail would be a long one.”

“He didn’t take a train tonight,” returned Prescott, shaking his head.  “If he wanted to disappear that would be the wrong way to go about it.  He’d be recognized from the descriptions that will go about broadcast.  No, sir!  Mr. Dodge must be hiding in some of the big stretches of woods over yonder.  A regiment could hide and be lost in the great woods.”

“It’s a trail I hate to leave,” muttered Dave Darrin.

“But we’ve got to wait until daylight.  We can’t do much in the dark, anyway.  I’ve got to get back to ‘The Blade’ office.  Get your bearings here, Dave.  To make doubly sure I’ll cut a slice out of this tie to mark the place where we found this print, for it may be indistinct by daylight.”

Marking the location Dick Prescott wheeled and began to hurry back, followed by Darrin.  In due time they reached the buggy, took the light blanket from the horse, unhitched and jumped in.  Fast driving took them to “The Blade” office.

“You didn’t learn anything, did you?” questioned Bradley.

“Yes; we did,” Dick informed him.  “The police, with their launch didn’t get any trace of Mr. Dodge, did they?”

“No,” admitted the news editor.  “I’ve talked with Hemingway within the last hour.  The police will begin dragging the river by daylight.”

“They won’t find the banker that way,” chuckled Dick.  “He’s alive.”

“Have you seen him?” demanded the news editor.

“No; and I’m not going to say too much now, either,” returned Dick, with unusual stubbornness.  “But ‘The Blade’ wants to take the keynote that Theodore Dodge is alive, and will turn up.  I believe Dave and I are going to make him turn up during the next spell of daylight.”

“We surely are!” laughed Darrin.

Mr. Bradley pressed them close with questions, but neither boy was inclined to reveal the secret of the trail along the railway roadbed.

“We’re going to keep it all as our own scoop,” Dick insisted.  “And please, Mr. Bradley, don’t post the police about our idea.  If you do, the police will get the credit.  If we keep quiet, ‘The Blade’ will get all the credit that is coming.”

The news editor laid before Dick all the proofs and copy that had been prepared so far on the absorbing mystery of the night.  Prescott made some newsy additions to the story, and through it all took the confident keynote that the vanished banker would soon be heard from in the flesh.

The work done, and Bradley having already seen to the return of the horse to the livery stable, Dick and Dave went into an unused room, where they threw themselves down on piles of old papers.  Tired out, they slept without stirring.  But they had left a note for the office boy who was due at six o’clock to sweep out the business office.

That office boy came in and called the High School pair at a few minutes after six.  Dick’s first thought was to instruct the boy to telephone the Prescott and Darrin homes at seven in the morning, sending word that the two boys were safe but busy.  Then Dick hastily led the way to a quick-order restaurant near by.  Here the boys got through with breakfast as quickly as they could.  That done, they bought sandwiches, which they put into their pockets.

As they came out of the eating house the streets were still far from crowded.  Laborers were going to their toil, but it was yet too early for the business men of the city to be on their way to offices, or clerks to the stores.

“Now, let’s get out of the town in a jiffy,” proposed Dick.  “We don’t want to have many folks observing which way we go.  We’ll travel fast right up along the railway track.”

Once started, the two boys kept going briskly.  Both had been drowsy at the outset, but the impulse of discovery had them in its grip now, and fatigue was quickly forgotten.

Something more than half an hour after the start the boys halted beside the tie that Prescott had whittled in the dark a few hours before.

“There are the footprints,” quivered Dave, staring hard.

“They’re not as distinct as they were a few hours ago,” replied Dick.  “Still, I think we can follow them.  I’m glad they lead toward the woods.”

“Yes,” Darrin agreed.  “The direction of the footprints shows that Mr. Dodge and his companions didn’t have any notion of boarding a train and getting out of this part of the world.”

Yet, though both of these young newspaper hounds were keen to follow the trail, they did not find it any easy matter.  Dick and Dave reached the edge of the woods.  Then, for a short time, they were obliged to explore carefully ere they came again upon one of the bootmarks of fastidious Banker Dodge.  It was a hundred feet further on, in a bit of soft mould, that the next bootprint was found.  Had these two High School boys been more expert trackers they would have found a fairly continuous trail, but their untrained eyes lacked the ability to see other signs that would have been evident to a plainsman.

So their progress was slow, indeed.  They could judge only by the direction in which each last footprint was pointed, and they had to remember that one wandering through the woods might travel over a course whose direction frequently changed.

“Dave,” whispered Prescott, “I think we had better separate a little.  We might go along about a hundred feet apart.  In that way there is more chance that we’ll come sooner upon the next print.”

There were perhaps six hundred feet into the woods, by this time, and stood looking down at the fifth footmark they had found.

“All right,” nodded Darrin.  “We’re a pair of rank amateurs at this kind of work, anyway.”

“Amateurs or not,” murmured Dick, with a smile? “we seem to be the only folks in Gridley who are on the right track in this mystery at present.”

“I’m full of misgivings, anyway,” muttered Dave.

“Why?”

“I can’t help feeling that we should have turned our news over to Chief Coy or Hemingway.

“Again, why?”

“Well, if we lose our man now, we’ll soon feel that we ought to have turned the whole thing over to the police while the trail was fresh.”

“Dave, don’t you know, well enough, that newspapers do more than the police, nowadays, in clearing up mysteries?”

“This may be more than a mystery,” hinted Dave.  “Even if we get through to the end of this trail –­or mystery we may find a crime at that end.”

“All the more need, then, for moving on fast.  See here, Dave, I’ll follow just the way this footprint points.  You get out a hundred feet or so to the right.  And we’ll move as fast as we can, now.”

The wisdom of this plan was soon apparent, for it was Dave Darrin who discovered the next footprint.  He summoned Dick Prescott with a sharp hiss.

“Yes; all right,” nodded Dick, joining his comrade and gazing down at one of the narrow bootmarks.  “But don’t send a long signal again, Dave.  We might be close, and warn some one out of our way.”

“What shall we do, then?”

“We’ll look frequently at each other, and the fellow who discovers anything will make signs to the other.”

Three minutes later Dick Prescott crouched low behind a line of bushes, his eyes glistening as he peered and listened.  Then he began to make wildly energetic signals to Dave Darrin.

The head partner of Dick & Co. had fallen upon something that interested him –­tremendously!