The morning after Lillian's disappearance, Mrs. Foley inquired of the boys in the neighborhood if they had seen anything of her son Tom, who, she declared, had been gone since the previous morning.
From Sandy she learned that Tom had taken dinner at Gilbert's the day before, but that when the party had started for the river he had dropped out, claiming he was too down-hearted to join in the pleasure.
``That's the way he acted at home,'' said the widow, ``and it seemed to me it was almost unnacheral for him to talk against his father, as he did.
However, I'm not bothered about him, for he comes and goes just as he pleases, and when he gets good and ready he'll turn up, like a bad penny. I've stopped worryin' about him years an' years ago.''
``If I see Tom,'' volunteered the boy, ``I'll tell him yer want him,''--and he hurried away.
The next morning Sandy left home earlier than usual, and on his own account began a search for Lillian. A new theory had taken possession of him, and he started at once for the river. At the magazine gate he chatted with the sentry about the mysterious disappearance, and passed on. When he reached the shore half a mile beyond, he was surprised to find that the padlock on the door of the shed had been pried off, and that his boat was missing.
Opening the door he saw that his oars and blankets were gone, and he began to feel that his theory might lead him to important discoveries. For fully five minutes he stood motionless, and gazed into the river, buried deep in his own thoughts. Then he soliloquized: ``I wonder if Lily's been stolen? S'pose, while we've been searchin' fer her high an' low, Foley an' the galoot what whacked me jest took the little girl an' carried her off in my boat? That 'ere story 'bout Dennis Foley buyin' a ticket for Philadelphy struck me as fishy when I fust heerd it, an' now I don't believe it a t'all. They couldn't git through the magazine gate 'thout the guards seein' them, an' whoever took my boat either came up the shore or down the shore.
'Tain't likely they came from up shore, 'cause they could 'a' found a hundred boats 'tween here an' the upper bridge.''
Turning around, Sandy started down the beach toward the cemetery. He was studying carefully the ground beyond the point of high tide, and in a few moments reached the ravine where, two nights before, the three abductors had stopped, upon hearing Colonel Franklin and his sailing party approach.
``Well, I'll be durned,'' he exclaimed, for in the sand before his very eyes was the impress of four pairs of shoes. Two were evidently those of men, one small enough to be that of a boy, and one so tiny as to convince him it was that of a child.
``This is the way they come,'' he con-tinued, ``and there wuz three of 'em in the gang besides the little one, an' I'm sure er that.''
He followed the footprints until he reached the old wharf. Peering through the rotten timbers, he said:
``That's a rum ol' hole. I don't believe Satan hisself would go in there, but I'm goin', an' see what I kin see.''
Sandy had no difficulty in entering the cave, which he found strewn with whisky bottles, pieces of bread and newly-picked bones, evidence enough that some one had been there but a short time before.
Penetrating deeper in his search, he made a find of the utmost importance.
Lying at one side, and near a bed of rags, was an envelop addressed to Dennis Foley, and, on a peg which had been driven into the wall, was hanging an old hat, which he had often seen on Hildey's head.
Elated at the results of his quest, he began to retrace his steps, and in eager haste he left the cave. Picking his way along the slimy stones under the wharf, he soon neared the outlet and there was startled by the most significant of all his discoveries. Right before him lay the identical hoop which he had given the lost child only Christmas Day, and which bore the inscription, ``From Sandy Coggles to Lillian Franklin.''
Every suspicion now was confirmed, and he was sure he knew the culprits. Taking the hoop, he returned to his boat-house with all possible speed, and leaping into his skiff, paddled up the river, his eyes scanning the marsh lines on either bank of the channel. Arriving at the bridge, he learned by inquiry from the tender stationed there that he had not seen the Lillian coming up stream within the past three days.
``But,'' explained the bridge-tender, ``I'm only on from six to six during daylight, and of course if anything comes through at night I wouldn't know about it. I'm pretty sure, though, there's been nothing up this way for a month of Sundays, 'cept Buck Wesley, who creeped up 'bout two hours ago, following a gang of ducks that uses right over there above Mayhew's Meadows. And the way Buck's been shooting for the last hour, he must be having a time and no mistake.''
``Well, so long,'' called Sandy. ``I guess I'll go up the river a little further and have a look.'' And once more he took up his paddles. As he came abreast of the Meadows he saw Buck Wesley coming out of the creek in his gunning skiff.
``Is that you, Sandy?'' shouted the gunner.
``That's me,'' was the boy's answer.
``Come over here, I want to talk to you,'' requested Buck.
When Sandy got alongside the hunter's boat, he asked:
``Well, Buck, what's the trouble?''
``No trouble, Sandy, but when I come up the river this mornin'--I ain't been up for three weeks, it's been such pore weather for ducks--I seen a bunch of widgeon go down right over here, an' as I skims up by the collard patch t'other side of the bridge, I noticed a boat lyin' in the mud, and when I gits near to her, I knows by the cut of her jib that she's yer Lillian.''
``My Lillian? Wher'd yer say yer seen her?'' asked Sandy excitedly.
``Why, by the collard patch, not fifty yards from the Causeway. She looked like she'd drifted on the marsh. I calc'lated when I got through shootin' that I'd pick her up an' take her down to yer landin'. The oars wuz in, an' I guess she must 'a' strayed from the shore, through somebody fergettin' to tie her up.''
