When Oskar Hedin left the store at the closing hour, he went directly
to his hotel, bolted a hasty luncheon, slipped into outdoor togs and a
half hour later was silently threading an old log-trail that bit deep
into the jack-pines. Mile after mile he glided smoothly along that
silent winding white lane, his skis making no sound in the soft, deep
snow.
Just beyond a swamp, in the centre of a wide clearing, surrounded upon
three sides by the encroaching jack-pines and poplars, and upon the
fourth by a broad bend of the river, Hedin removed his skis and seated
himself upon a rotting log of a tumbled-down cabin, there to think.
So, that's why she wanted a new coat? She was going out for the
evening with Wentworth. And she invited Wentworth to go tobogganing,
on this particular afternoon of all others, when he had intended to
whisper in her ear, as the toboggan flew down the steep grade, the
thing that had been uppermost in his mind for a year. And she had
asked her father to give him a job. Of course, what could be simpler?
A man can manage to exist, somehow, without a job--but with two a job
is essential.
He laughed, a short, hard laugh that ended in a sneer. Well, he had
been a fool--that's all. He had served her purpose, had been the poor
dupe upon whom she had practised her wiles, a plaything, to be lightly
tossed aside for a new toy. Some day, too late perhaps, she would see
her mistake, and then she would suffer, even as he was suffering
now--but, no, to suffer one must first love, and woman had not the
capacity to love. "To hell with them!" he cried aloud. "To hell with
my tame job! And to hell with Terrace City, and with the civilization
that calls a man from the wild places and sets him to selling women
baubles to deck themselves out in."
The jack-pine shadows reached far into the clearing as Oskar fastened
on his skis and headed back along the tote-road. It was not too
late--he was only twenty-five. He, too, would live like a man, would
go into the North, and henceforth only the outlands should know him.
He would resign Monday morning. The thought caused a pang of regret at
parting with McNabb.
Darkness found him still upon the tote-road. He emerged from the
jack-pines and paused at the long smooth hill, as was his wont, to look
down upon the brilliant lights of Terrace City. His momentum carried
him skimming across a flat meadow, and he slowed to a stand at the very
end of the main street where, in the white glare of an arc light he
removed his skis, and stepped onto the sidewalk.
Well, he would see her once more, arrayed in the coat of matched
sable--and he would carry the picture with him to far places where the
stars winked cold in the night sky.
Fully twenty minutes before time for the curtain Hedin was in his
place, tenth row on the middle aisle, eagerly scanning the patrons as
they were ushered to their seats. The theatre boasted only two boxes,
set just above the stage level, and Elsie Campbell had engaged them
both.
As time for the curtain to rise drew near, Hedin found himself
fidgeting nervously. Had the theatre party been called off? The house
was already well filled; surely there was no block of vacant seats that
would accommodate a dinner party. Then, as he had about given up hope,
he raised his eyes to a box just as Jean McNabb entered, followed
closely by Wentworth. Hedin stared as if petrified, brushed his hand
across his eyes as though to clear his vision of distorting film, and
stared again. For Wentworth was lifting a coat from Jean's shoulders,
but it was not a sable one. Seizing his hat and coat, Hedin rushed
from the building, narrowly avoiding collision with an usher.
Without pausing to put on his coat, he dashed for the store and letting
himself in, took the stairs three at a time. Upon the second flight,
he met the night watchman who, recognizing him, allowed him to pass,
but noting his evident agitation and unaccountable haste, silently and
discreetly followed and took up a position where he could watch every
move of the excited department head. Hastening to the fur safe, Hedin
unlocked and threw it open. He switched on the light, and peered into
the interior. The Russian sable coat was not in its accustomed place.
And a hurried search of the safe showed that it was in no other place.
Closing the door, he inspected the case that contained the less
valuable furs, and it was but the work of a moment to discover that the
baum marten coat was missing. Dumbfounded, he stared at the empty
space where the coat should have been. His brief inspection in the
theatre had told him this was the coat Jean McNabb was wearing--but
where was the sable? He distinctly remembered replacing the marten
with his own hands, and of seeing the girl pass down the aisle wearing
the sable.
He sank into his chair and, leaning forward, buried his face in his
arms upon his desk. He tried to think clearly, but found himself
entirely incapable of thought. How did it happen? Where was the sable?
Calling the watchman, Hedin questioned him for half an hour, but
learned nothing. He even made a personal inspection of every door and
window in the store, and sent the watchman to the basement on a tour of
similar inspection. When the man returned and reported nothing
disturbed, Hedin left the store and proceeded directly to his room,
where he spent a sleepless night in trying to solve the mystery.
After breakfast the following morning Jean McNabb sat before the little
dressing table in her room when the doorbell rang, and the maid
announced Mr. Hedin.
"Tell Mr. Hedin I can't see anyone this morning," she said, without
looking up.
Again the maid tapped at the door, and entering, handed the girl a
hastily scribbled leaf torn from a notebook. Jean read it at a glance,
and her face flushed with swift anger. No salutation, only a few
scrawled words: "Must see you at once. Purely matter of business--very
important--about the coat."
Crossing to her desk the girl scribbled upon the reverse side of the
paper. "Never talk business on Sunday. Coat will be at store as per
agreement."