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It is vain to look elsewhere for tracks in this dry weather; but at THAT point there is certainly a chance of some record being left.

I will call you early to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw some little light upon the mystery."

The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin form of Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had apparently already been out.

"I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed," said he. "I have also had a ramble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson, there is cocoa ready in the next room. I must beg you to hurry, for we have a great day before us."

His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilaration of the master workman who sees his work lie ready before him.

A very different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the introspective and pallid dreamer of Baker Street.

I felt, as I looked upon that supple figure, alive with nervous energy, that it was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.

And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment.

With high hopes we struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a thousand sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green belt which marked the morass between us and Holdernesse.

Certainly, if the lad had gone homewards, he must have passed this, and he could not pass it without leaving his traces.

But no sign of him or the German could be seen.

With a darkening face my friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant of every muddy stain upon the mossy surface.

Sheep-marks there were in profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left their tracks.

Nothing more.

"Check number one," said Holmes, looking gloomily over the rolling expanse of the moor. "There is another morass down yonder and a narrow neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what have we here?"

We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the middle of it, clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a bicycle.

"Hurrah!" I cried. "We have it."

But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled and expectant rather than joyous.

"A bicycle, certainly, but not the bicycle," said he.

"I am familiar with forty-two different impressions left by tyres.

This, as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover.

Heidegger's tyres were Palmer's, leaving longitudinal stripes.

Aveling, the mathematical master, was sure upon the point.

Therefore, it is not Heidegger's track."

"The boy's, then?"

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