"There's someone's card," remarked Ruth, as she touched a bit of pasteboard with the toe of her shoe. "Maybe it was on the door, telling at what hour the person who lives here would return."
"Maybe," agreed Tom, stooping to pick it up. "I'll fasten it back again. I wonder who does live here?"
Idly he turned the card over. Then he started in surprise, for the name that met his eyes was:
Reginald Boswell
"Who is it?" asked Ruth. "Anyone I know?"
"I—I fancy not," answered Tom, still staring at the card. "I wonder how that got here?" he mused. "And I wonder who lives in this shack? " and putting the bit of pasteboard in his pocket, he swung around.
"I guess we'd better be getting back," he said to Ruth. "It's getting late, and it's a bit of a pull. I'm sorry we couldn't find your brooch."
"So am I," she admitted, with a sigh. "But it can't be helped. Oh, how can I tell grandmother?"
She took Tom's arm, as the way was rough. They had not gone many feet before they heard someone approaching, tramping through the underbrush.
"Who can that be?" asked the girl.
"I don't know—we'll look," whispered Tom.
