Nothing was disturbed, yet it seemed to Freckles
that he could see where prying fingers had tried the lock. He stepped
behind the case, carefully examining the ground all around it, and close
beside the tree to which it was nailed he found a deep, fresh footprint
in the spongy soil--a long, narrow print, that was never made by the
foot of Wessner. His heart tugged in his breast as he mentally measured
the print, but he did not linger, for now the feeling arose that he
was being watched. It seemed to him that he could feel the eyes of some
intruder at his back. He knew he was examining things too closely: if
anyone were watching, he did not want him to know that he felt it.
He took the most open way, and carried water for his flowers and moss
as usual; but he put himself into no position in which he was fully
exposed, and his hand was close his revolver constantly. Growing restive
at last under the strain, he plunged boldly into the swamp and searched
minutely all around his room, but he could not discover the least thing
to give him further cause for alarm.
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