Jimmy Holden did not sicken. He went cold. He froze as the dancing
flashlight passed over his head, and relaxed partially when it moved
away in a series of little jumps pausing to give a steady light for
close inspection. The light swung around and centered on the smashed
automobile. It was upside down, a ruin with one wheel still turning idly.

The stranger went to it, and knelt to peer inside. He pried ripped metal
away to get a clear sight into the crushed interior. He went flat on his
stomach and tried to penetrate the area between the crumpled car-top and
the bruised ground, and he wormed his way in a circle all around the car,
examining the wreck minutely.

The sound of a distant automobile engine became audible, and the
searching man mumbled a curse. With haste he scrambled to his feet and
made a quick inspection of the one wabbly-turning wheel. He stripped a
few shards of rubber away, picked at something in the bent metal rim, and
put whatever he found in his pocket. When his hand came from the pocket
it held a packet of paper matches. With an ear cocked at the road above
and the sound of the approaching car growing louder, the stranger struck
one match and touched it to the deck of matches. Then with a callous
gesture he tossed the flaring pack into a pool of spilled gasoline. The
fuel went up in a blunt _whoosh_!

The dancing flames revealed the face of Jimmy Holden's "Uncle" Paul
Brennan, his features in a mask that Jimmy Holden had never seen before.

With the determined air of one who knows that still another piece lies
hidden, Paul Brennan started to beat back and forth across the trail of
ruin. His light swept the ground like the brush of a painter, missing no