Philip jumped from his horse and examined the ground.
"There are five in the gang, Billinger," he said shortly--"All of them were galloping--but one." He looked up to catch Billinger leaning over the pommel of his saddle staring at something almost directly under his horse's feet.
"What's that ?" he demanded.

"A handkerchief ?" Philip picked it up--a dainty bit of fine linen, crumpled and sodden by dew, and held it out between the forefinger and thumb of both hands.
"Yes, and a woman's handkerchief.

Now what the devil--" He stopped at the look in Billinger's face as he reached down for the handkerchief.

The square jaws of the man were set like steel springs, but Philip noticed that his hand was trembling.
"A woman in the gang," he laughed as Philip mounted.
They started out at a canter, Billinger still holding the bit of linen close under his eyes.

After a little he passed it back to Philip who was riding close beside him.
"Something happened last night," he said, looking straight ahead of him, "that I can't understand.