The Mystery off Glen Road

it.”
    “I’m lost right now,” Honey said with a nervous laugh. “This clearing doesn’t look familiar.”
    “They look different in the fall,” Trixie said, feeling a little nervous herself. “I mean, we might have had a picnic here last summer but wouldn’t recognize the same spot now.”
    “I really wish we’d left behind a bottle or something,” Honey said. “Any kind of bottle with a map or a compass in it would come in handy now. There are three paths leading out of this clearing, Trixie.
    Which one shall we take? Or is one of them a trail? What is the difference, anyway? I know Indians used to blaze trails by leaving all sorts of signs on trees, but there haven’t been any Indians around here for ages.”
    “Somebody’s been around here recently,” Trixie said as she swung out of the saddle. “And whoever it was couldn’t have been Fleagle, because he left Sunday night before it rained.” She pointed to a large footprint in the small section of the clearing where there were no pine needles. “It wasn’t an Indian, either. It was somebody who was wearing hunting boots, and since all of this property is posted, he was trespassing.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “In other words, Honey Wheeler, that footprint probably belongs to a poacher !”
    Honey sighed. “I don’t think that footprints belong to people. I mean, after all, you leave them behind and don’t feel possessive about them. Anyway, that footprint probably belongs to Mr. Lytell, and I’m very glad to see it, because it must mean that we’re very near his store.”
    “Don’t be silly,” Trixie cried. “Mr. Lytell’s not a poacher.”
    “I didn’t say he was,” Honey said with another sigh. “Oh, why must you always be such a detective, Trixie? Mr. Lytell is a nosy old gossip, but he wouldn’t harm a fly. So you just can’t call him a poacher. Besides, I don’t think there are any poachers anymore. They only lived in very olden times in England. And even then, like Robin Hood, they were very good things. The kings had no business not letting their starving subjects kill deer.”
    It was Trixie’s turn to sigh. “I’ve got news for you, Honey,” she said as she climbed back into the saddle. “There are such things as poachers nowadays. That’s why the state of New York hires wardens, whom they call game protectors. That’s one reason why your father has to have a gamekeeper. A poacher is a person who breaks the game laws, and he is also anybody who, although he may not be breaking a game law, kills or catches any living thing on somebody else’s property.”
    “Oh,” Honey said in a subdued tone of voice. “Well, I guess that settles it. If there are poachers lurking around, you and I can’t be gamekeepers. What would we do even if we did catch a poacher poaching?”
    “Why, that’s simple,” Trixie replied. “We’d simply track him to his lair. And if he didn’t have a lair, he’d have a car or a truck or something so he could tote away the carcasses of everything he’d illegally killed. In that case, all we’d have to do is to get the registration number of his car and then report him to the police.”
    Honey shuddered. “You may think it’s simple, but the very word, carcass, makes me feel like fainting. You know perfectly well, Trixie Belden, that I always faint at the sight of blood.”
    Trixie grinned impishly. “You know perfectly well, Honey Wheeler, that you got over that phobia a long time ago. You’re not any more afraid of poachers and carcasses than I am. Anyway, let’s continue along the trail. It’s always the widest one of the paths, so this must be it.”
    “It’s not the one the toe of that print is pointing to,” Honey objected. “I’m sure it isn’t.”
    “That doesn’t mean anything,” Trixie said, leading the way along the trail. “A poacher, unless he was traveling on horseback, wouldn’t stick to the trails. He’d sneak along the paths.”
    Honey was silent for a few minutes while Strawberry trotted along behind Lady. Then she said, “I think that footprint was left by Mr. Lytell. He trespasses on Daddy’s game preserve all the time, but nobody minds. I mean, he has to when he goes out riding on that old gray mare of his. But I’m sure he doesn’t do any poaching.”
    “I’m sure of that, too,” Trixie said. “I’m also sure he didn’t leave the footprint. Because he never wears hunting boots.”
    “Oh, all right,” Honey said