pocket, were two cards and a letter. These Tom picked up and glanced
at, using Roy's flashlight. One of the cards was an automobile
registration card. The other was a driver's license card. They were both
of the State of New Jersey and issued to Aaron Harlowe. The letter had
been stamped but not mailed. It was addressed to Thomas Corbett, North
Hillsburgh, New York. This name tallied with the name of the child's
father in the newspaper.

Here was pretty good proof that the man who had met death here upon this
wild, lonely mountain was none other than the owner of the gray
roadster, the coward who had fled from the consequences of his
negligence, and turned it into a black crime!

"Are you going to open it?" Bert Winton asked.

"I guess no one has a right to do that but the coroner," Tom said. "We
have no right to move the body even."

"Well," said Bert Winton, his awe at the sight of death somewhat
subsiding at thought of the victim's cowardice, "there's an end of Aaron
Harlowe who ran over Willie Corbett with a gray roadster and----"

"And was going to send a letter to the kid's father," concluded Tom.
"And here's his footprint, too. I'd like to take his shoe off and fit it
into this footprint," Tom said.

"What for?" Roy asked.

"Just to make sure."

But Tom soon dismissed that thought and the others did not relish it.
Moreover, Tom knew that the law prohibited him from doing such a thing.

With the mystery, as it seemed, cleared up, there remained nothing to do
but explore the immediate vicinity for the sake of scout thoroughness.
Their search revealed other loose boards, a few cooking utensils and
finally the utter wreck of what must have been a very primitive and tiny
shack. This was perhaps a couple of hundred feet from the body and below
the highest point of the mountain. It was conceivable that a fire here
might have shown in a faint glare down at camp. The blaze could not have
been seen. Amid the ruin of the shack were a few rough cooking utensils.
The soaking land and the darkness effectually concealed the charred
remnants of any fire.

"Well, he'll never shoot any buffaloes and wild Indians," said Roy.

Tom replaced the cards and letter, or rather put them in the dead man's
pocket for fear the wind might blow them away, though being under the
lee of the trunk they had been somewhat protected. Then the party
retraced their path down the mountain and, circling its lower reaches,
found themselves