They came to the abandoned road that led into the woods and they brought their motorcycles as far as possible, finally leaving them by the roadside and going ahead on foot. Frank located the place where the roadster had been driven off into the woods, for the trees were still bent and broken, and the two boys plunged into the depths of the thickets.
At last the Hardy boys emerged into the little cleared space where the roadster had been found. Everything was just as they had left it. They examined the ground carefully.
“He might have dropped letters from his pocket, or something,” said Joe hopefully, as they explored the clearing.
But the auto thief had not been so careless. There was not even a footprint, for the boys had trampled the ground thoroughly after the roadster had been discovered.
“If I had only thought to look for footprints at the time!” groaned Joe, in disappointment.
“Or fingerprints. He must have left fingerprints somewhere about the car. If he was a professional crook we could have traced him easily.”
“Too late now. Chet has had the car washed since then—we didn’t think of it in time.”
Their search was without success, and the Hardy boys were about to give up in disappointment when Frank left the clearing and began to hunt about in the bushes.
“I guess we might as well go home,” said Joe. “We’ve come hunting for clues too late. If we had any sense we would have looked for fingerprints and—”
He was interrupted by a shout from his brother.