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peculiar odour, searching it out among scores of other smells superimposed upon it.

Presently the bitch lifted her great muzzle to the skies and vented a prolonged and melancholy baying. The dog lunged toward her at her call. The hounds had struck Peck's scent behind a boulder some twenty yards down the road. Six feet away lay an empty shotgun shell. The sheriff picked this up and put it in his pocket, the first thread of the hemp to go around Peck Bradley's neck.

A minute later the hounds struck off through the hills, towing the handlers after them. The crowd followed; some trotting to keep up; others falling behind; all rather excited at being on the actual trail of a murderer.

Only once in a long while did the hounds give mouth in their basso-profundo baying. They settled to a steady pull up hill and down dale. The crowd got strung out in the long line of march; presently some of the men began dropping out of the chase by ones and twos returned, walking more leisurely through the woods to the village.

Each straggler who returned was met by crowds eager to know exactly where the dogs struck the trail, which way Peck had gone, how long did it take them to pick up the scent? The telling of it was almost as exciting as seeing the dogs in action.

Peck had gone right through the manure pile behind Squire Meredith's barn, trying no doubt to throw the hounds off his trail. He turned up Grasshopper Ridge. He crossed this ridge and waded Big Ford Creek for about half a mile. Here the dogs split, one went up the creek, the other down. Half a mile up the creek the bitch again gave tongue; the dog came to her.

And so on and on and on, until the posse was reduced to the few men who actually saw the chase through. Then no more stragglers returned with their reports.

After that the village gleaned a general outline of the chase by telephone. Old man Darby heard the hounds on Piney Ridge. He had tried to go to them, but never could locate