Hurrying along the shadowed road beside Dr. David Stone and Lady, Joe
Morrow was conscious of the hard pounding of his heart against his ribs.
The telephone call from Police Captain Tucker had been terse and abrupt,
but out of it had come alarm and revelation. The explosion he and his
uncle had heard an hour ago had not been the backfire of an automobile,
but the murderous bark of a pistol. And Ira Close, the Foster's hired
man, had been shot, and nine-year-old Billy Foster had been kidnaped. Joe
gulped. He had seen the small boy at school that afternoon.
Moonlight flooded the yard in the rear of Ben Foster's house, and black
shapes stood out in sharp relief. Pressed against the powerful flanks of
the dog Joe strained his eyes and made them out: Mr. Foster, agitated,
walking back and forth restlessly; Captain Tucker staring hard at the
ground, and a third man--Why, the third man was Ira Close. The boy gave a
suppressed cry.
"He's there, Uncle David."
"Billy?" Dr. Stone asked eagerly.
"No, sir; Ira. Ira wasn't shot badly. It's only his hand. His hand is
bandaged."
Dr. Stone said: "Lady, left," and the dog swung them into the Foster
yard. At the sound of their feet on the driveway gravel Mr. Foster gave a
cry and hurried toward them.
"Thank God, Doctor, you're here. If you can find him, if you can get him
back----"
"Are you sure," the doctor broke in quietly, "he hasn't gone to a
friend's house and stayed for supper? Small boys sometimes forget to come
home."
Captain Tucker shook his head. "It's kidnaping. We have the ransom note.
Five thousand dollars."
"Ten thousand!" Mr. Foster cried wildly. "Fifteen! Any amount, so long as
he comes back unharmed."
"Easy," said Dr. Stone, and took out his pipe and reached into a pocket
for tobacco. Amid the hysterical panic he was controlled, steady. "If
we're to get any place we must try to think clearly. When was the boy
seen last?"