I arose and took from him the envelope which he held in his extended
hand; he was too lazy to get up and hand it to me. It was very much the
worse for its travels, almost in shreds. It was addressed by an
illiterate hand and bore several official stampings of _Wrong address_
and _Not Found_. But Uncle Sam, that invincible errand boy, had left it
at the right place at last, though all too late. It contained a letter
written with pencil on a cheap tablet page of lined stationery. To me
there is something fine about an old travel-worn letter, bearing the
honorable scars of its battles with the world, and bereft of its
timeliness, finally reaching its intended destination. Be that as it
might, I lifted the folded contents from the envelope without any
feeling that I was violating the privacy of personal mail. And holding
it down in the light of the fire, I read:
Coover’s falls, N. Dakota.
My dear Son
Now it is so menny months I did not here I must say it looks
like you hav forgot yure own mother. I look for the
telegraph paper that Mister McClintik sent but can’t find so
try to think of the address were you are. You no you said
you would be back soon this time now it is months and I
don’t even here. You said it would do you good in the woods
just a month but I know you would not stay in the Woods in
all this cold. I am spry only for my rumatiz that is so bad
in the damp wether. I look for the ducks but Missus Boardman
said you decided its silly to send them so far. Now if I
knew where Mr. McClintik have his house I would mail this
there. You are a bad boy and like your father must be always
gadding over the earth but a good boy to so I tell Missus
Boardman. I pray God you get this and it finds my boy well.
Every day I say you will be here.
love from your Mother
If an old travel-worn envelope has a certain appeal, how much is that
appeal heightened by the human touch, the pathos, of such an enclosure!
Some poor old woman reaching a trembling hand out into the great world,
groping for a lost son! Perhaps the very heart which prompted that all
but hopeless inquiry was still. The stout heart that protested its
loyalty in the very face of Mrs. Boardman. Perhaps the “rumatiz” had
done its work. And still, where was this wandering son who was so much
like his father?
“Looks as if there were four people here instead of three all right,
doesn’t it?” drawled Brent. “In looking over the targets I hit the
bull’s-eye--as you might say. The old gent, little Rollie, Weston, was
it?--and Peter Northrop. It really doesn’t make any difference; I don’t
have to cook for them. One, more or less, is no matter--as long as
they’re all gone.” He considered the fire musingly. “But it’s kind of
interesting when things fit together like that, huh.... Might drop a
line to the old lady, huh?”
“Leave that to me, I certainly will,” I said. “There are two things I
have to do; speak to Rivers and write to Mrs. Northrop.”
“But how about this mystery?” Tom asked. “So far as the vision, or
whatever you call it, is concerned, it was just a dream. Old man
McClintick didn’t walk out of his picture, that’s sure.”
“He might have at that,” Brent drawled. “He was always pretty hard to
hold back, I guess. Maybe he was dodging the income tax people.... Turn
that log over, will you Tommy?”
Ignoring his levity, Tom fixed the fire.
“Pull that nail keg over here, will you, Tommy?” said Brent. “Put it
under my feet--fine.” He resettled himself comfortably.
“That part was a dream and we’ll forget it,” said Tom.
“If you had seen it you wouldn’t forget it,” said I.
“But the footprint under the suitcase is real,” said Brent. “Anyway, the
suitcase is real; it’s a cheap one, but it’s real.”
“Well, what do you think about it?” I asked, a trifle annoyed. “You sit
there talking as if we were discussing the weather. What are we going to
do about it? A stranger was in this lodge, that’s absolutely certain.”
“You want me to deduce conclusions?” Brent drawled. “Well then, if
nobody entered by the windows, and if the door wasn’t tampered with,
there are two theories left. Either your midnight visitor was in the
lodge before you retired, or else he had a key to the door. Personally,
I prefer the key theory.”
The thought of there being some one in the lodge with me all through
that tempestuous evening, somewhat startled me. “I don’t think so,” I
said thoughtfully. “There was no one in either of the other rooms when I
went to mine.”
“All right then,” said Tom, jumping into the discussion in his impulsive
way; “here’s what we’re face to face with. Here’s a footprint in this
hearth. There’s another like it up the mountain. There’s some vestige of
a trail--if our dreamer didn’t dream that too. Some one entered this
lodge with a key, left a footprint upstairs, and went away again taking
the folded up newspaper article about Mr. McClintick’s death with him.
Now what about it?”
“You forgot the word scratched on the rock up the mountain,” Brent
drawled.
“And that too,” said Tom.
“And Peter Northrop,” I added. “Do you suppose it’s possible that these
footprints are his? Whoever he was, he was evidently here. He was here
in the hunting season; he promised to send ducks to his mother. All
right; he knew the bunch here; he would be interested in reading about
the old man’s death; he took the article. Might that fellow, whoever he
was, be loitering around here for some reason or other? He might be back
here for some purpose. Isn’t that so?”
“Why sure,” said Tom; “that’s what I was coming to.”
“How did he know that a little folded up bit of paper sticking in the
door jamb, was of any interest?” Brent asked.
“It was taken away, wasn’t it?” snapped Tom.
“If he took it, it was because he was looking for it,” said Brent.
“All right,” snapped Tom, rising and pacing back and forth in his
mounting enthusiasm, “that’s as may be. But here’s the point; we’re
pretty sure now there were four people here instead of three--Brent has
established that.”
“You flatter me,” said Brent.
“The old man, his son, Weston, and a fellow named Peter Northrop.”
“We’re not sure of that, but it’s a pretty good surmise,” said Brent.
“Now then,” said Tom, “the old man and his son are eliminated. There
were two others. Somebody who has a peculiar interest in this place, and
doesn’t want it known, has been about here. We don’t know anything about
Weston, but he’s the one who accidentally shot young McClintick, and I
shouldn’t think _he’d_ ever want to see this place again. Northrop
hasn’t been home since. Do you suppose he could be around here now for
some reason or other?”
“It’s not impossible,” said Brent in his leisurely way. “Why don’t you
two go up the mountain, exploring?”
“Of course,” snapped Tom.
“I’ll do something before we do that,” I said. And spurred to action by
our talk, I stepped over to the table, lighted the lamp, and pulling a
sheet of paper out of my portfolio wrote:
Leatherstocking Training Camp,
P. O. address Harkness, Clinton Co.,
New York.
My dear Mrs. Northrop:
A letter sent by you to your son, and misdirected, has
lately been received at this address. The envelope was much
damaged and its contents falling out, so the letter was read
by those in charge here. It is hoped that by this time your
boy has returned to you, or that you know of his
whereabouts.
Mr. McClintick and his son, the former owners here, are both
dead and camp has changed hands. If you have not yet heard
from your boy it might be worth while to write and tell us
something of the circumstances of his coming here as it is
barely possible that some trace of him may be obtained in
that way.
A stranger, unseen by those in charge here, has lately
visited the camp secretly. It has occurred to us that this
might possibly be your son. We are curious to know if he had
a scar on his foot, and if you could inform us as to this,
it might possibly identify this as yet unknown visitor.
The management here hopes that you will not count on any
further information from this source, but if it is possible
for us to assist you in your search we shall be only too
glad to do so.
In answering, please address your envelope the same as the
heading of this letter.
I read this intentionally simple missive aloud to Tom and Brent for
their approval and Tom signed it as Camp Manager. Brent suggested that
we send two copies, one to the mother, the other to the Mrs. Boardman
mentioned in her letter. We assumed that Coover’s Falls was a small
place. But if it chanced to be a town of considerable population perhaps
one letter would be received if the other was not. We had no initials to
prefix to the name on either letter. Brent suggested that if Peter
Northrop’s mother had married a second time, her name would not be
Northrop.
There is something positively uncanny in the way that Brent thinks of
things. He never forgets or neglects anything.