"I don't quite know," she answered wearily. "Seth's moral fibre--if he
has any--is becoming like a worn-out spring in a clock." Then her
dark eyes searched Carney's placid gray eyes, and she asked, "Were you
playing?"
"Yes."
The girl drew her hand across her eyes as if she were groping, not
for ideas, but for vocal vehicle. "And you left before the game was
over--why?"
"Tired."
Jeanette put her hand on Carney's that was lying on the table. "Was Seth
cheating?"
"Why do you ask that, Jeanette?"
"I'll tell you. He's been playing by himself in his room for two or
three days. He's got a pack of cards that I think are crooked."
"What is this Shipley like, Jeanette? Do you suppose that he brought
Seth those cards?"
"I don't know," the girl answered; "I don't like him. He and Seth have
played together once or twice."
"They have! Look here, Jeanette, you must keep what I am going to tell
you absolutely to yourself, for I may be entirely wrong in my guess.
There was a marked pack in the game, and I think Seth owned it. This
Shipley acted very like a man who was running a bluff of being angry. He
and Seth had some words over nothing. It seems to me the quarrel was too
gratuitous to be genuine."
"You think, Bulldog, that Shipley and Seth worked together to win
Hadley's money--he had six thousand in Seth's strong box?"
"I can't go that far, even to you, Jeanette. But to-morrow Seth has got
to give back to Hadley whatever he has won. I've got one of the cards in
my pocket, and that will be enough."
"But if he divides with Shipley?"
"Shipley will have to cough up the stolen money, too, because then the
conspiracy will be proven."
"Yes, Bulldog. I guess if you just tell them to hand the money back,
there'll be no argument. I can go to bed now and sleep," she added,
patting Carney's hand with her slim fingers. "You see, if Seth got that
stranger's money away it wouldn't worry him--the moral aspect, I mean;
but somehow it makes it terrible for me. It's discovering small evil
in a man--petty larceny, sneak thieving--that pours sand into a woman's
soul. Good night, Bulldog. I think if I were only your sister I'd be
quite satisfied--quite."
"You are," Carney said, rising; "we are seven--and you are the other
six, Jeanette."
As a rule nothing outside of a tangible actuality, such as danger that
had to be guarded against, kept Carney from desired slumber; but after
he had turned out his light he lay wide awake for half an hour, his soul
full of the abhorrent repugnance of Seth's stealing.
Carney's code was such that he could shake heartily by the hand, or
drink with, a man who had held up a train, or fought (even to the death
of someone) the Police over a matter of whisky or opium running, if
that man were above petty larceny, above stealing from a man who had
confidence in him. He lay there suffused with the grim satisfaction of
knowing how completely Seth, and possibly Shipley, would be nonplussed
when they were forced on the morrow to give up their ill-gotten gains.
That would be a matter purely between Carney and Seth. The problem of
how he would return the loot to Hadley without telling him of the marked
pack, was not yet solved. Indeed, this little mental exercise, like
counting sheep, led Carney off into the halls of slumber.
He was brought back from the rest cavern by something that left him
sitting bolt upright in bed, correlating the disturbing something with
known remembrances of the noise.
"Yes, by gad, it was a shot!"
He was out of bed and at the window. He could have sworn that a shadow
had flitted in the dim moonlight along the roadway that lay beyond the
police shack; it was so possible this aftermath of card cheating, a shot
and someone fleeing. It was a subconscious conviction that caused him
to precipitate himself into his clothes, and slip his gun belt about his
waist.
In the hall he met Jeanette, her great mass of black hair rippling over
the shoulders, from which draped a kimono. The lamp in her hand enhanced
the ghastly look of horror that was over her drawn face.
"What's wrong, Jeanette--was it a shot?"
"Yes! I've looked into Seth's room--he's not there!"
Without speaking Carney tapped on a door almost opposite his own; there
was no answer, and he swung it open. Then he closed it and whispered:
"Hadley's not in, either; fancy they're still playing." Jeanette pointed
a finger to a door farther down the hall. Carney understood. Again he
tapped on this door, opened it, peered in, closed it, and coming back
to Jeanette whispered: "Shipley's not there. Fancy it must be all
right--they're still playing. I'll go over to the shack."
"I'll wait till you come back, Bulldog. It isn't all right. I never felt
so oppressed in my life. I know something dreadful has happened--I
know it." Carney touched his fingers gently to the girl's arm, and
manufacturing a smile of reassurance, said blithely: "You've eaten a
slab of bacon, _à la_ fry-pan, girl." Then he was gone.
As he rounded the hotel corner he could see a lighted lamp in a window
of the police shack. This was curious; it hurried his pace, for they
were not playing at the table.
He threw open the shack door, and stood just within, looking at what he
knew was a dead man--Seth Long sprawled on his back on the floor where
he had tumbled from a chair. His shirt front was crimson with blood,
just over the heart.
There was no evidence of a struggle; just the chair across the table
from where Seth had sat was ominously pushed back a little. The
red-backed cards were resting on the corner of the table neatly gathered
into a pack.
Cool-brained Carney stood just within the door, mentally photographing
the interior. The killing had not been over a game that was in progress,
unless the murderer, with super-cunning, had rearranged the tableau.
Carney stepped to beside the dead man. Seth's pistol lay close to his
outstretched right hand. Carney picked it up, and broke the cartridges
from the cylinder; one was empty; the barrel of the gun was foul.
Seth's shirt was black and singed; the weapon that killed him had been
held close.
Carney's brain, running with the swift, silent velocity of a spinning
top, queried: Was the killer so super-clever that he had discharged
Seth's gun to make it appear suicide?
Subconsciously the marked cards that probably had led up to this murder
governed Carney's next move. He thrust his hand in the pocket of the
coat where Seth had put the discarded pack--it was gone. He felt the
other pocket--the pack was not there. A quick look over the room, table
and all, failed to locate the missing cards. He felt the inside pocket
of the coat for the leather wallet that contained Hadley's money--there
was no wallet.
At that instant a sinister feeling of evil caused Carney to stiffen, his
eyes to set in a look of wariness; at the soft click of a boot against a
stone his gun was out and, without rising, he whipped about.
The flickering uncertain lamplight picked out from the gloom of the
night in the open doorway the face of Shipley. Perhaps it was the goblin
light, or fear, or malignant satisfaction that caused Shipley's face
to appear grotesquely contorted; his eyes were either gloating, or
imbecile-tinged by horror.
"My God! what's happened, Carney?" he asked. "Don't cover me, I--I----"
"Come into the light, then," Carney commanded.
In silent obedience Shipley stepped into the room, and Carney, passing
to the door, peered out. Then he closed it, and dropped his gun back
into his belt.
"What's happened?" Shipley repeated. And the other, listening with
intensity, noticed that the speaker's voice trembled.
"Where have you come from just now?" Carney asked, ignoring the
question.
Shipley drew a hand across his eyes, as if he would compel back his
wandering thoughts, or would blot out the horror of that blood-smeared
figure on the floor.
"I went for a walk," he answered.
"Why--when?" Carney snapped imperiously.
"I quit the game half an hour ago, and thought I'd walk over to
Cranford's house; the smoking and the drinks had given me a headache."
"Why to Cranford's house?"
Shipley threw his head up as if he were about to resent the crisp
cross-examining, but Bulldog's gray eyes, always compelling, were now
fierce.
"Well,"--Shipley coughed--"I didn't like the looks of the game to-night;
that ace being shy---- Didn't you feel there was something not on the
level?"
"I didn't take that walk to Cranford's!". The deadliness that had been
in the gray eyes was in the voice now.
"I thought that if Cranford was still up I'd talk it over with him; he'd
lost, and I fancied he was sore on the game."
"What did Cranford say?"
"I didn't see him. I tapped on his door, and as he didn't answer I--I
thought he was asleep and came back. I saw the door open here, and----"
Shipley hesitated.
"Did you leave Seth and Hadley playing?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't see either of them again?"
"No."
"Did you hear a shot?" and Carney pointed toward the blood-stained
shirt.
Shipley looked at Carney and seemed to hesitate. "I heard something ten
minutes ago, but thought it was a door slamming. Where's Hadley--have
you seen him? Were you here when this was done?"
"Come on," Carney said, "we'll go back to the hotel and round up
Hadley."
As they went out Carney locked the door, the key being still in the
lock.
When the two men entered the Gold Nugget, Carney stepped behind the bar
and turned up a wall lamp that was burning low. As he faced about he
gave a start, and then hurried across the room to where a figure huddled
in one of the big wooden arm chairs. It was Hadley--sound asleep, or
pretending to be.
When Carney shook him the sleeper scrambled drunkenly to his feet
blinking. Then the boy smile flitted foolishly over his lips, and he
mumbled: "I say, how long've I been asleep--where's Seth?"
"What are you doing here asleep?" Carney asked, the crisp incisiveness
of his voice wakening completely the rather fogged man.
"I sat down to wait for Seth. Guess the whisky made me sleepy--had a
little too much of it."
"Where did you leave Seth--how long ago?"
"Over at the police shack; we quit the game and Seth said he'd tidy
up for fear the Sergeant'd be back in the morning--throw out the empty
bottles, and pick up the cigar stubs and matches, kind of tidy up. I
came on to go to bed and----" Hadley spoke haltingly, as though his
memory of his progress was still befogged--"when I got here I remembered
that he'd got my wallet, and thought I'd sit down and wait so's to be
sure he didn't forget to put it back in the iron box."
"Did you have a row with Seth when you broke up the game?"
Hadley flushed. He was in a slightly stupid condition. During his nap
the whisky had sullenly subsided, leaving him a touch maudlin, surly.
"I don't see what right you've got to ask that; I guess that's a matter
between two men."
Carney fastened his piercing eyes on the speaker's, and shot out with
startling suddenness: "Seth Long has been murdered--do you know that?"
"What--what--what're you saying?"
Hadley's mouth remained open; it was like the gaping mouth of a gasping
fish; his eyes had been startled into a wide horrified wonder look.
"Seth--murdered!" then he grinned foolishly. "By God! you Westerners
pull some rough stuff. That's not good form to spring a joke like that;
I'm a tenderfoot, but----"
"Stop it!" Carney snarled; "do you think I'm a damned fool. Seth has
been shot through the heart, and you were the last man with him. I want
from you all you know. We've got to catch the right man, not the wrong
man--do you get that, Hadley?" The fierceness of this toniced the man
with a hang-over, cleared his fuzzy brain.
"My God! I don't know anything about it. I left Seth Long at the police
shack, and I don't know anything more about him."
There was a step on the stairway. Carney turned as Jeanette came through
the door. He went to meet her, and turned her back into the hall where
he said: "Steady yourself, girl. Something has happened."
"I know--I heard you; I'm steady." She put her hand in his, and he
pressed it reassuringly. Then he whispered:
"I'm going to leave you with these two men while I get Dr. Anderson, and
I want you to see if either of these men leaves the room, or attempts to
hide anything--I can't search them. Do you understand, Jeanette?"
"Yes."
He came back to the room with the girl and said:
"I'm going for the coroner, Dr. Anderson, and for your own sakes,
gentlemen, I'll ask you to wait here in this room--it will be better."
Then he was gone.
In twenty minutes he was back with Dr. Anderson. On their way to the
hotel Carney and the Doctor had gone into the police shack to make
certain, through medical examination, that Seth was dead.
Upon their entry Jeanette had gone upstairs, the Doctor suggesting this.
Dr. Anderson was a Scotchman, absolute, with all that the name implies
in canny conservative stubborn adherence to things as they are; the
apparent consistencies.
Here was a man murdered in cold blood; he was the only one to be
considered; he was the wronged party; the others were to be viewed
with suspicion until by process of elimination they had been cleared
of guilt. So there was no doubt whatever but that Carney had as good a
claim as any of them to the title of assassin.
In the flurry of it all Carney had not thought of this.
When the three stories had been told, Dr. Anderson said:
"Sergeant Black will be back to-morrow, I think; then we'll take action.
I'd advise you gentlemen to remain _in statu quo_, if I might use the
term. There's one thing that ought to be done, though; I think you'll
agree with me that it is advisable for each man's sake. A wallet with a
large sum of money has disappeared from the murdered man's pocket, and
as each one of you will be more or less under suspicion--I'm speaking
now just in the way of forecasting what that unsympathetic individual,
the law, will do--it would be as well for each of you to submit to a
search of your person. I have no authority to demand this, but it's
expedient."
To this the three agreed; Hadley, with a sort of repugnance, and Shipley
with, perhaps, an overzealous compliance, Carney thought. There was no
trace of the wallet.
Carney had said nothing about the missing cards, but neither were they
found.
No pistol was found on Hadley, but a short-barreled gun was discovered
in Shipley's hip pocket.
The Doctor broke the weapon, and his eyebrows drew down in a frown
ominously--there was an empty chamber in the cylinder.
"There're only five bullets here," he said, his keen eyes resting on
Shipley's face.
"Yes, I always load it that way, leaving the hammer at the empty
chamber, so that if it falls and strikes on the hammer it can't
explode."
With an "Ugh-huh!" Anderson looked through the barrel. It was of an
indeterminate murkiness; this might be due to not having been cleaned
for a long time, or a recent discharge.
"I'd better retain this gun, if you don't mind," he said.
Shipley agreed to this readily. Then he said, in a hesitating,
apologetic way that was really more irritating than if he had blurted it
out: "Mr. Carney, as I have stated, was discovered by me standing
over the dead man with a gun in his hand. I think as this point will
certainly be brought up at any examination, that Mr. Carney, in justice
to himself, should let the Doctor examine his weapon to see that it has
not lately been discharged."
Carney started, for he fancied there was a direct implication in this.
But the Doctor spoke quickly, brusquely. "Most certainly he should--I
clean forgot it."
Carney drew the gun from its leather pocket, broke it, and six
lead-nosed.45 shells rolled on the table; not one of the shells had lost
its bullet. He passed the gun to Dr. Anderson, who, pointing it toward
the light, looked through the barrel.
"As bright as a silver dollar," he commented, relief in his voice;
"I'm glad we thought of this." Carney slipped the shells back into the
cylinder, and dropped the gun into its holster without comment.
Then the Doctor said: "We can't do anything to-night--we'll only
obliterate any tracks and lose good clues. We'll take it up in the
morning. You men have got to clear yourselves, so I'd just rest quiet,
if I were you. If we go poking about we'll have the whole town about our
ears. I'm glad that nobody thought it worth while to investigate if they
heard the shot."
"A shot in Bucking Horse doesn't mean much," Carney said, "just a
drunken miner, or an Indian playing brave."
It seemed to Carney that Anderson had rather hurried the closing out
of the matter, that is, temporarily. It occurred to him that the
Scotchman's herring-hued eyes were asking him to acquiesce in what was
being done.
Carney lingered when Shipley and Hadley had gone to bed.
The Scotch Doctor had filled a pipe, and Bulldog noticed that as he
puffed vigorously at its stem his eyes had wandered several times to the
platoon of black bottles ranged with military precision behind the bar.
"I'm tired over this devilish thing," Carney remarked casually, and
passing behind the bar he brought out a bottle and two glasses, adding,
"Would you mind joining?"
"I'd like it, man. Good whisky is like good law--a wee bit of it is very
fine, too much of it is as bad as roguery."
The Doctor quaffed with zest the liquid, wiped his lips with a florid
red handkerchief, took a puff at the evil-smelling pipe, and said:
"Court's over! A minute ago I was 'Jeffries, the Hangin' Judge,' and
to-morrow, as coroner, I'll be as veecious no doubt; now, _ad interim_
(the Doctor was fond of a legal phrase), I'm going to talk to you,
Bulldog, as man to man, because I want your help to pin the right devil.
And besides, I have a soft spot in my heart for Jeanette--perhaps it's
just her Scotch name, I'm not sayin'. In the first place, Bulldog, has
it struck you that you're in fair runnin' to be selected as the man that
killed Seth?"
Carney laughed; then he looked quizzically at the speaker; but he could
see that the latter was in deadly earnest.
"Mind," the Doctor resumed, "personally I know you didn't do it; that's
because I know you devilish well--you're too big for such small-brained
acts. But the law is a godless machine; its way is like the way of a
brick mason--facts are the bricks that make the structure."
"But the law always searches for the motive, and why should I kill Seth,
who was more or less a friend?"
"All the worse. As a matter of fact there are more slayings over
strained friendships than over the acquisition of gold. But don't
you remember what that foul-mouthed brute, Kootenay Jim, said when
Jeanette's brother was near lynched?"
Carney stared; then a little flush crept over his lean tanned face:
"You mean, Doctor, about Jeanette and myself?"
"Aye."
Carney nodded, holding himself silent in suppressed bitterness.
"The same evil mouths will repeat that, Bulldog. And here are the bricks
for the law's building. Shipley will swear that he found you bending
over the murdered man with a gun in one hand searching his pockets. And
I noticed, though I didn't speak of it, there was blood on your hands."
Startled, Carney looked at his fingers; they were blood-stained. Then he
drew his gun, saying, "God! and there's blood on this thing, too!"
"There is; I saw it on the butt. And though you broke it here before us
to-night to show that it hadn't been discharged, Sergeant Black, while
he's thickheaded, will perhaps have wit enough to say that you were off
by yourself when you came for me, and could have cleaned house."
"And that swine, Shipley--do you suppose he thought of that, too?"
"I think he did: I did at the time, though I said nothing. You see,
Carney, innocent or guilty, he naturally wants to clear himself, and
he took a chance. If he's innocent he may really think that you killed
Seth, and hoped to find the proof of it in a smudged gun and an empty
shell; and if he's guilty, he was directing suspicion towards you,
knowing that the clean gun would be nothing in your favor at the
examination as you had had the opportunity to put it right. I don't like
the incident, nor the man's spirit, but it proves nothing for or against
him. I expect he's clever enough to know that the last man seen with a
murdered man is, _de facto_, the slayer."
"As to the matter of the gun," Carney said, "I've an idea Seth was
killed with his own gun. He was in a grouchy mood to-night--he always
was a damn fool--and he may have pulled his gun, in his usual bluffing
way, and the other party twisted it out of his hand and shot him. I only
heard one shot." Carney remained silent for a full minute; then he said:
"One doesn't care to bring a good woman's name into anything that's
evil, but I fancy I'd better tell you: Jeanette was wakened by the shot
that wakened me, and we talked in the hall before I went over to the
police shack."
"That'll be valuable evidence to establish your alibi, Bulldog--in the
eyes of the law, in the eyes of the law."
Then the Doctor puffed moodily at his pipe, and Carney could read the
writing on the wall in the irritable little balloons of smoke that went
up, the Doctor's unexpressed meaning that gossips would say Jeanette had
sworn falsely to clear him. Anderson resumed:
"Hadley was evidently the last man playing cards with Seth, and there
was considerable money at stake; that he was still up when the murder
was discovered--these things are against him. Supposing he did shoot
Seth, he might have come to the hotel and, seeing a light in the' upper
hall and hearing Jeanette moving about, might have sat in that dark
corner till things had quieted down before going to his room."
"Hadley isn't the kind to commit murder."
"To-night he was another kind of man--he was pretty drunk; and the man
that's drunk is like an engine that had lost the governing balls--he has
lost control. And the shock of the murder may have sobered him enough to
make him a bit cautious."
"But Shipley was out, too," Carney objected. "Aye, he was; and he's
got a devilish lame story about going to see Cranford. I don't like his
face--' it's avariciously vicious--he's greedy. But the law can't hang
a man for having a bad face; it takes little stock in the physiologist's
point of view." Carney sat thinking hard. The full significance of the
attached possibilities had been put clearly before him by the astute,
canny Scotchman, and he realized that it was friendship. He was certain
the Doctor suspected Shipley.
"I wanted to get shut of yon two," the Doctor added, presently, "for
you're the man that needs to get this cleared up, and you're the man can
do it, even as you caught Jack the Wolf. Is there any clue that we can
follow up before the trail gets cold?"
"There is, Doctor. There was a pack of marked cards in Seth's pocket,
and they're gone."
"The man that has that pack is the murderer," Dr. Anderson declared
emphatically.
"He is."
"And the wallet."
"Yes."
Then Carney explained to the Doctor that the marked pack had, evidently
belonged to Seth, and told of the change in cards, and the possibility
that Shipley had stood in with Seth on the winnings, letting the latter
do all the dirty work, perhaps helping Seth's game along by raising the
bet when he knew that Seth held the winning cards.
Again the Doctor consulted his old briar pipe; then he said: "Either
Shipley or somebody was in collusion with Seth, you think?"
"Yes."
"If we could get that man--?"
"Look here, Doctor," and Carney put his hand on the other's knee,
"whoever has got that money will not try to take it out over the
railroad, for it was in fifty-dollar bills of the Bank of Toronto."
"I comprehend: the wires, and the police at every important point; a
search. Aye, aye! What'll he do, Bulldog?"
"He'll go out over the thieves' highway, down the border trail to
Montana or Idaho."
"My guidness! I think you're right. Perhaps before morning somebody may
be headin' south with the loot. If it's Shipley--I mean, anybody--he may
have a colleague to take the money down over the border."
"Yes, the money; he'll not try to handle it in Canada for fear of being
trapped on the numbers."
"So you might not get the murderer after all," Anderson said,
meditatively; "just an accomplice who wouldn't squeal."
"No; not with the money alone on him we wouldn't have just what I want,
but when we get a man with the marked pack in his pocket that's the
murderer. It was devilish fatalism that made him take that pack, like a
man will cling to an old pocket-knife; they're the tools of his trade,
so to speak. And here in the mountains he could not handily come by
another pack, perhaps."
"I comprehend. If the slayer goes down that trail he'll have the marked
cards with him still, but if he sends an accomplice the man'll just have
the money on him. Very logical, Bulldog."
Twice as they had talked Carney had stepped quickly, silently, to the
door at the foot of the stairway and listened; now he came back, and
lowering his voice, said: "I get you, Doctor; it's devilish square of
you. I'm clear of this thing, I fancy, as you say, in the eye of the
law, but for a good woman's sake I've got to get the murderer."
"It would be commendable, Carney, if you can."
"Well, then, give these other men plenty of rope."
"I comprehend," and Dr. Anderson nodded his head.
"I've got a man--'Oregon' he's known as--down at Big Horn Crossing; he's
there for my work; I'm going to pull out to-night and tell 'Oregon' to
search every man that rides the border trail going south."
"I don't know whether I can give you the proper authority, Bulldog--I'll
look it up with the town clerk."
Carney laughed, a soft, throaty chuckle of honest amusement.
Piqued, the Doctor said irritably, "You're thinking, Bulldog, that the
little town clerk and myself are somewhat of a joke as representing
authority, eh?"
"No, indeed, Doctor. I was thinking of 'Oregon.' He's got his authority
for everything, got it right in his belt; he'll search his man first and
explain afterwards; and when he gets the right man he'll bring him in.
First, I'm going to make a cast around the police shack with a lantern.
Even by its light I may pick up some information. I'll get Jeanette to
stake me to a couple of days' grub; I'll take some oats for the buckskin
and be back in three days."
"I'll wait here till you have a look," the Doctor declared; "there might
be some clue you'd be leaving with me to follow up."
Carney secured a reflector lantern from a back room and, first kneeling
down, examined the footsteps that had been left in the soft black earth
around the police shack door. He seemed to discover a trial, for he
skirted the building, stooping down with the lantern held close to the
ground, and once more knelt under a back window. Here there were tracks
of a heavy foot; some that indicated that a man had stood for some time
there; that sometimes he had been peering in the window, the toe prints
almost touching the wall. There were two deeply indented heel marks as
if somebody had dropped from the window.
Carney put up his hand and tested the lower half of the sash. He
could shove it up quite easily. Next he drew a sheet of paper from his
pocket--it was really an old letter--and with his pocket-knife cut it
to fit a footprint that was in the earth. Then he returned to the front
door, and with his paper gauge tested the different foot imprints,
following them a piece as they lead away from the shack. He stood up
and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his brows drawn into a heavy frown of
reflection, ending by starting off at a fast pace that carried him to
the edge of the little town.
In front of a small log shack he stooped and compared the paper in his
hand with some footprints. He seemed puzzled, for there were different
boot tracks, and the one--the latest, he judged, for they topped the
others--was toeing away from the shack.
He straightened up and knocked on the door.
There was no answer. He knocked again loudly; no answer. He shook the
door by the iron handle until the latch clattered like a castanet:
there was no sound from within. He stepped to a window, tapped on it
and called, "Cranford, Cranford!" The gloomed stillness of the shack
convinced him that Cranford had gone--perhaps, as he had intimated, to
Bald Rock.
He went back and fitted the paper into the topmost tracks, those heading
away from the shack. The paper did not seem to fit--not quite; in fact,
the other track was closer to the paper gauge.
Back at the hotel he related to Dr. Anderson the result of his trailing.
When he spoke of Cranford's absence from the shack, the Doctor
involuntarily exclaimed: "My God! that does complicate matters. I was
thinking we might get a double hitch on yon Shipley by proving from
Cranford he hadn't been near the latter's shack. But now it involves
Cranford, if he's gone. He's an unlucky devil, that, and I know, on
the quiet, that he's likely to get in trouble over some payments on
a mine,--they're threatening a suit for misappropriation of funds or
something."
"You see, Doctor," Carney said, "the sooner I block the likely get-away
game the better."
"Yes. You pull out as soon as you like. I'll have a search for
Cranford, and I'll generally keep things in shape till Sergeant Black
comes--likely to-morrow he'll be here. I'll hold an inquest and, of
course, the verdict will be 'by someone unknown.' I'll say that you've
gone to hurry in Sergeant Black."
When the Doctor had gone Carney went upstairs to where Jeanette was
waiting for him in the little front sitting room.
With her there was little beyond just the horror of the terrible ending
to it. Her life with Seth Long had been a curious one, curious in its
absolute emptiness of everything but just an arrangement. There was no
affection, no pretense of it. She was like a niece, or even a daughter,
to Seth; their relationship had been practically on that basis.
Her father had been a partner of Long in some of his enterprises,
enterprises that had never been much of anything beyond final failure.
When his partner had died Seth had assumed charge of the girl. It was
perhaps the one redeeming feature in Seth's ordinary useless life.
Now Jeanette and Carney hardly touched on the past which they both knew
so well, or the future about which, just now, they knew nothing.
Carney explained, as delicately as he could, the situation; the
desirability of his clearing his name absolutely, independent of her
evidence, by finding the murderer. He really held in his mind a somewhat
nebulous theory. He had not confided this fully to Dr. Anderson, nor
did he now to Jeanette; just told her that he was going away for two
or three days and would be supposed to have gone after the Mounted
Policeman.
He told her about the disappearance of the marked pack, and explained
how much depended upon the discovery of its present possessor.