“Dick — he’s following some kind of trail,” said Julian. “I’m pretty certain it’s George’s. Even if somebody carried her away, Timmy is clever enough to know George might be with him — he might just get a whiff of her.”

“Come on then — let’s follow Timmy,” said Dick, and the boys and Sally went along the little path, hot on Timmy’s track. Timmy began to run, and Dick called to him.

“Not so fast, old boy! We’re coming too.”

But Timmy did not slow down. Whatever it was he smelt, the scent was quite strong. The boys ran after him, beginning to feel excited.

But soon Timmy came to a full stop, in a little clearing in the wood. Dick and Julian panted up to where he was nosing round. He looked up at them forlornly. Evidently the scent came to an end there.

“Car-tracks!” said Dick, pointing down to where the dampish grass under a great oak tree had been rutted with big tyre-marks. “See? The men brought a car here and hid it, then crept through the woods to Kirrin Cottage, and waited for a chance to get Berta. They got George instead — but they wouldn’t have got anyone if only George hadn’t been ass enough to take Sally to the kennel! The house was well and truly locked and bolted!”

Julian was looking at the wheel-tracks. “These tracks were made by very big tyres,” he said. “It was a big car — and I rather think these are American tyre marks. I can check that when I get back — I’ll go and ask Jim, at the local garage — he’ll know. I’ll just sketch one quickly.”

He took out a notebook and pencil and began to sketch. Dick bent down and looked more carefully at the tracks. “There is quite a lot of criss-crossing of tracks,” he said. “I think the men came here and waited. Then, when they got George, they must have pushed her into the car, and turned it to go back the way they came — see, the tracks lead down that wide path over there. They made a mess of the turning, though — bumped into this tree, look — there’s a mark right across it.”

“Where?” said Julian at once. “Yes — a bright blue mark — the car was that colour — or the wings were, at any rate. Well, that’s something we’ve learnt! A big car, painted blue, probably American. Surely the police could trace that?”

“Timmy’s still nosing round, the picture of misery,” said Dick. “Poor old Tim. I expect he knows George was pushed into a car just here. Hallo — he’s scraping at something!”

They ran to see what it was. Timmy was trying to get at some small object embedded in a car-rut. Evidently, in turning, the car had run over whatever it was.

Dick saw something broken in half — something green. He picked up the halves. “A comb! Did George have a little green comb like this?”