As the artist obeyed, the Ranger continued, “I wrote the Sheriff all I knew—­and some things that I suspect.  It’s that automobile that sticks in my mind—­that and some other things.  The machine must have left Fairlands before you did, unless it came over through the Galena Valley, from some town on the railroad, up San Gorgonio Pass way—­which isn’t likely.  If it did come from Fairlands, it must have waited somewhere along the road, to enter the canyon after dark.  Do you think that any one else besides Myra Willard and Lagrange and you know that Sibyl started up here?”

“I don’t think so.  The neighbor where she borrowed the horse didn’t know where she was going.”

“Who saw her last?”

“I think Mrs. Taine did.”

The artist had already told the Ranger about the possible meeting of Mrs. Taine and Sibyl in his studio.

“Hu-m-m,” said the other.

“Mrs. Taine left for the East at four o’clock, you know,” said the artist.

“Jim Rutlidge didn’t go, you said.”  The Ranger spoke casually.  Then, as if dismissing the matter, he continued, “You get some rest now, Aaron.  I’ll take care of your horse and saddle a fresh one for you.  As soon as it’s light, we’ll ride.  I’m going to find out where that automobile went—­and what for.”

Chapter XXXIII

Beginning the Search

Aaron King lay with closed eyes, but not asleep.  He was thinking, thinking, thinking In a weary circle, his tired brain went round and round, finding no place to stop.  The man on horseback, the automobile, some accident that might have befallen the girl in her distraught state of mind—­he could find no place in the weary treadmill of conjecture to rest.  While it was still too dark to see, Brian Oakley called him.  And the call was a relief.

As the artist pulled on his boots, the Ranger said, “It’ll be light enough to see, by the time we get above Carleton’s.  We know the automobile went that far anyway.”

At the Carleton ranch, as they passed, they saw, by the lights, that the mountaineer’s family were already making ready for the gathering of the riders.  A little beyond, they met two men from the Company Head-Work, on their way to the meeting place.  Soon, in the gray, early morning light, the tracks of the automobile were clearly seen.  Eagerly, they followed to the foot of the Oak Knoll trail, where the machine had stopped and, turning around, had started back down the canyon.  With experienced care, Brian Oakley searched every inch of the ground in the vicinity.

Shaking his head, at last, as though forced to give up hope of finding any positive signs pointing to the solution of the puzzle, the officer remounted, slowly.  “I can’t make it out,” he said.  “The road is so dry and cut up with tracks, and the trail is so gravelly, that there are no clear signs at all.  Come, we better get back to Carleton’s, and start the boys out.  When Milt returns from Fairlands he may know something.”