They were all confused, showing that the taxicab we were following
had evidently backed in and turned several times before going on.
"Crossed by another set of tire tracks!" he exclaimed excitedly,
studying closer. "That must have been the limousine, waiting."
Laboriously he was following the course of the cars in the open
space, when the one word escaped him, "Footprints!"
He was up and off in a moment, before we could imagine what he was
after. We had got out of the cab, and followed him as, down to the
very shore of a sort of cove or bay, he went. There lay a rusty,
discarded boiler on the beach, half submerged in the rising tide.
At this tank the footprints seemed to go right down the sand and
into the waves which were slowly obliterating them. Kennedy gazed
out as if to make out a possible boat on the horizon, where the
cove widened out.
"Look!" he cried.
Farther down the shore, a few feet, I had discovered the same
prints, going in the opposite direction, back toward the place
from which we had just come. I started to follow them, but soon
found myself alone. Kennedy had paused beside the old boiler.
"What is it?" I asked, retracing my steps.
He did not answer, but seemed to be listening. We listened also.
There certainly was a most peculiar noise inside that tank.
Was it a muffled scream?
Kennedy reached down and picked up a rock, hitting the tank a
resounding blow.
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