ring nearby, snickering at
the success of his efforts.

Thankful that it was a warm night, he removed his garments one at a time
and wrung the water from them. The surface of the quarry pool caught the
yellow light of the waning fire as he poured water from his shoes. He
was very thoughtful. What was the meaning of the night's events?

His wringing out finished and his damp clothes back on, he sat down on
the limestone shelf to be as comfortable as possible while waiting.

He had set out at top speed to catch a ghost, but the ghost had caught
Richard Brant. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he was sure it meant
something. He shivered, as much from reaction as the dampness. Maybe
time would tell.

CHAPTER VII

The Frostola Man

Rick Brant was filled with cold anger. It showed in the determined set
of his lips as he swung Dr. Miller's car around the turn leading to the
bridge across the creek. He was no longer content to wait for
developments. After last night's episode, he and Scotty intended to take
the war to the enemy--for war it had become, the moment the Blue Ghost
had led them on the wild-goose chase ending with Rick in a deep quarry.

It was pure luck that Rick had not been hurt by the drop into the
quarry. True, the ghost had led them to the side that dropped sheer into
the water, but impact with the water after a fifty-foot drop was enough
to cause damage if one landed in the wrong position. Rick had hit feet
first, simply by chance.

Scotty looked at him as the car turned toward the picnic grounds.
"Aren't we going to town?"

"Sure. But I want another look at the landscape."

"What do you expect to see?"

"I don't know," Rick admitted. "I'm just hoping for an idea."

He drove through the trees, across the picnic ground, and came to a stop
before the mine shaft. There was no one in sight, and the grounds were
just as they had left them.

Rick studied the scene, searching for anything offbeat, any anomaly.
There was nothing, except for the iron pipe from which spring water
flowed. That bothered him. Dr. Miller's explanation might be the right
one, but he didn't really think so. If tailings from the mine had been
dumped there, the hill would not be so steep or so regular. The years
would have weathered the rock debris, but not to such a natural-looking
formation.

"If they didn't dump the tailings there," he thought aloud, "where did
they dump them?"

"Tailings?" Scotty prompted.

"