Hanford flashed his lamp around the body, lighting up the ground for several yards.
"What is that behind you, O'Gorman?" he said suddenly; "isn't it a knife?" He was moving quickly towards it when O'Gorman held up his hand.
"Don't touch it!" he exclaimed. "We'll put the hounds onto it. They'll soon track the scoundrel, whoever he is. By God! Hanford, this fellow has fairly delivered himself into our hands." He stood for a few moments looking down at the knife with something uncommonly like exultation, and then, turning quickly to his friend, said: "Look here, Hanford; you ride off to the police station as hard as you can pelt. It is only three-quarters of a mile; you'll do it in five minutes. Send or bring an officer and I'll scour the meadows meanwhile. If I haven't got the scoundrel when you come back, we'll put the hounds onto this knife and run the beggar down."
"Right," replied Hanford, and without another word he wheeled his machine about, mounted and rode away into the darkness.
"Mrs. Parton," said O'Gorman, "watch that knife. See that nobody touches it while I go and examine the meadows."
"Is Mr. Pratt dead, sir?" whimpered Mrs. Parton.
"Gad! I hadn't thought of that," said the
