Then, probably after the gate had closed on horse and rider, Jacques had left his tree, crossed the road, this time with hesitation, his short steps leading, not to the door, but to the window.
Michel put his own feet in his son's footprints and reached the window.
Through the chinks in the shutter the interior, when lighted, could be seen; but now all was dark, and Michel could see nothing.

But Jacques had certainly looked through the window; no doubt it was then lighted, and he had been able to see something.
Where had he gone on leaving the window?
Round the house, close to the wall.

This excursion was easy to follow.

The snow was virgin.

As for his purpose in going round the house that was not difficult to make out.
Jacques, like a lad of sense, had concluded that the traveller had not left a good hotel, saying that he was going to Geneva, to put up at a miserable tavern a mile from the town.
He must have ridden through the yard and gone out by some other exit.
Jacques had, therefore, skirted the house in the hope of recovering the trail, if not of the horse, at least of the rider on the other side.
Sure enough, from a small gate in the rear, opening toward the forest that extends from Coterz to Ceyzeriat, footsteps could be seen advancing in a straight line to the edge of the woods.