IX

On Monday morning old John McNabb entered his private office to find

Hedin awaiting him. He glanced at the younger man inquiringly--"What

ails ye, lad? Ye look like ye hadn't slept for a week."

"I haven't slept for two nights," answered Hedin. "There is no use

beating around the bush. As a matter of fact, the Russian sable coat

is missing, and I am to blame for it."

The old man stared incredulously. "Missin'!" he exclaimed. "An'

you're to blame! What d'ye mean?"

Hastily, in as few words as possible, Hedin recited the facts as he

knew them, while an angry flush mounted to the old man's face.

McNabb reached for the telephone and called a number. "Hello! Is that

you, Jean? Come to the store at once, and bring your new fur coat--to

my office. . . . What? No, that won't do, at all. Bring it

yourself--I'm waitin'."

"I'll step outside while Jean--while Miss McNabb----"

"Ye'll stay where ye are!" snapped McNabb.

The older man turned to his desk, where for ten minutes he opened and

closed drawers and rustled papers viciously. Then the door opened and

Jean herself stepped into the room with the fur coat over her arm.

"Well, Dad, here's the coat." She paused abruptly, glanced inquiringly

at Hedin, nodded coolly, and continued, "Oskar said it needed a little

tailoring, and that I was to bring it down this morning, but I didn't

think there was any tearing hurry about it."

Her father took the garment, smoothed the fur with his hand, and asked

casually, "Is this the coat ye wore from the store?"

"Why, of course it is."

"An' the one ye wore to the show?"

"Yes, yes," answered the girl impatiently. "I haven't so many fur

coats that I would be apt to get them mixed."

McNabb ignored the impatience. "Ye've had no other coat in your

possession since you selected this one?"

"No, I haven't. What's all this about?"

"Did Oskar tell you what kind of a coat you were gettin'?"

"Yes, a baum marten. Why, isn't it a baum marten?"

McNabb nodded. "Yes, it's a baum marten. Run along now. I just

wanted to see which coat ye'd got. Here, take it along with ye. The

tailor can wait."

With a puzzled glance at the two men, Jean took the coat, and with a

toss of the head left the office.

McNabb turned to Hedin. "What have ye got to say now? Did the girl

tell the truth?"

"Absolutely."

"Then that was the coat she wore from the store?"

"No--but she thinks it was. She doesn't know the difference."

For a long time John McNabb spoke no word but sat staring at his desk,

pecking at the blotter with his pencil. He prided himself upon his

ability to pick men. He knew men, and in no small measure was this

knowledge responsible for his success in dealing with men. He had been

certain that Jean and Hedin would eventually marry, and secretly he

longed for the day. He had watched Hedin for years and now, despite

the improbability of the story, he believed it implicitly. And it was

with a heavy heart that he had watched the studied coldness of each

toward the other. McNabb was a man of snap decisions. He would teach

these young fools a lesson, and at the same time find out which way the

wind blew. With a clenching of his fists, he whirled abruptly upon

Hedin.

"What did ye do with the coat?" he roared. "It'll go easier with ye if

ye tell me!"

"What do you mean?" cried Hedin, white to the lips, meeting McNabb's

gaze with a look of mingled surprise, pain, and anger.

"I mean just what I say. Ye've got the coat--where is it?"

Hedin felt suddenly weak and sick. He had expected McNabb's anger at

his foolish whim, and knew that he deserved it--but that McNabb should

accuse him of theft! Sick at heart, he faltered his answer, and in his

own ears his voice sounded strange, and dull, and unconvincing. "You

think I--I stole it?"

"What else am I to think? What will the police think? What will the

jury think when they hear your flimsy yarn--an' the straightforward

evidence of my daughter? They'll think that the coat she wore to the

show, an' that she still has, is the coat she wore from the store, an'

that you've got the other. An' when Kranz tells of your midnight visit

to the store, what'll they think then?" McNabb finished and, reaching

for the telephone, called the police headquarters. A few minutes later

the chief himself appeared, accompanied by the night watchman, Kranz,

whose story of the nervous and agitated appearance of Hedin on his

midnight visit to the store forged the strongest link in the chain of

circumstantial evidence.

After the watchman had been dismissed, Hedin was subjected to a

bullying at the hands of the burly officer that stopped just short of

personal violence, and through it all he stubbornly maintained his

innocence.

After another brief telephone conversation, the three visited the

private room of the judge where, waiving a preliminary hearing, the

prisoner was bound over to await the action of the grand jury, and his

bail fixed at ten thousand dollars.

X

At the mouth of the alley that led from a side street to the rear of

the jail, the policeman plucked at Hedin's sleeve, and turned in.

Mechanically Hedin fell in beside him. Someone passed upon the street.

"See who that was?" asked the officer maliciously, for he knew all the

town gossip. Hedin scarcely heard the question. "It was McNabb's gal.

Her throwin' you over fer this here Wentworth didn't give you no

license to steal her old man's fur coat, all right--but maybe you ain't

so onlucky, at that. Folks says she's all right--a little gay an' the

like of that--but runnin' the streets at midnight, like she was a

Saturday, with a guy that goes after 'em like Wentworth! Call it gay

if they want to, but if it was anyone but old McNabb's daughter, they'd

be callin' it somethin' else."

Smash! Hedin's fist drove with terrific force into the flappy jaw, and

the big officer reeled, and crashed into the snow between a row of ash

barrels, and a dilapidated board fence. The young man stared in

surprise as he waited for the other to regain his feet. The officer's

words had roused a sudden flash of fury, and with nerves already

strained to the breaking point, he had struck. But the man,

grotesquely sprawled behind the barrels, made no move.

Hedin glanced up and down the alley. It was empty. He was free!

Swiftly he proceeded down the alley, passed the jail, and turned into

the street. Here he slackened his pace, and walking leisurely to his

hotel, hastily made up a light pack. Passing around to the rear, he

took his skis from their place, walking to the edge of town, fastened

them on, and was soon swallowed up in the jack-pines. For an hour he

glided smoothly over the snow, and upon the edge of a balsam thicket

sat down on a log to rest.

There were two courses open. Either he could return to Terrace City

and face the charge against him as best he could, or he could keep

going. It was only a few miles across country to Pipe Lake, where he

could catch the P.M. for Detroit.

His thoughts turned abruptly from the problem of flight, and plunged

into the problem of the missing coat. It was not conceivable that the

garment had been destroyed; therefore it was still in existence. If in

existence, somebody had it. Who? One by one, Hedin considered the

personnel of the theatre party, and one by one he eliminated them until

only Wentworth was left. Wentworth! If he could only prove it! He

remembered that someone had casually remarked that morning at breakfast

that Wentworth had gone North for old John McNabb. He had heard McNabb

mention some pulp-wood lands in the North. Gods Lake, wasn't it? Why,

Gods Lake post was old Dugald Murchison's post! Hedin remembered

Murchison well. It was only last year he had spent a week as the guest

of his old friend McNabb, and nearly every evening at dinner Hedin had

sat at meat with them, and listened in fascination to the talk of the

far outlands. He remembered the shrewd gray eyes of Murchison--eyes

that bespoke wisdom, and justice tempered with mercy.

He smote his leg with his mittened fist. He would go North, straight

to old Dugald Murchison, and he would tell him the whole story.

Murchison would help him, and if Wentworth were innocent, then he,

Hedin would return to Terrace City and give himself up. He would not

be a fugitive from justice, for justice owed him the chance to prove

his innocence.

Once his mind was made up, Hedin rose to his feet and slung the light

pack to his back. Then he lowered the pack, and stood thinking. He

would hit for Pipe Lake, but Hanson, the storekeeper at Pipe Lake,

would recognize him. Tossing his pack aside, he scooped a hole in the

snow, built a tiny fire of balsam twigs, and melted some water in his

drinking cup. Then, setting a small hand mirror upon the log, he

produced his razor and proceeded to shave off his mustache. This done,

he grinned at himself in the mirror, as he reflected that Hanson had

never seen him except in conventional clothing, and that he would never

recognize him in mackinaw and larrigans, with his mustache gone.

Once more he stood up, kicked snow over his fire, swung the pack to his

back, and started to skirt the swamp. Then suddenly he halted in his

tracks. There was a mighty crackling of dry twigs close at hand, and a

voice commanded gruffly, "Hands up!"

Instinctively Hedin elevated his hands as he stared into the muzzle of

a revolver. Beyond the revolver he saw the grinning face of Mike

Duffy, erstwhile lumberjack, then bootlegger, and now policeman; under

the Hicks regime.

"Shaved her off, eh?" taunted the man. "Well, mebbe you'd 'a' fooled

most folks, but you hain't fooled me none, special' as I be'n layin' in

the brush watchin' you fer half an hour. You'd of got away from the

rest of 'em too."