Supper was over and Laxton, the land agent, sat in the rotunda of the leading hotel at Navarino. It was a handsome building, worthy of the new town which had sprung into existence on the discovery that a wide belt of somewhat arid country, hitherto passed over by settlers, was capable of growing excellent wheat. As soon as this was proved, rude shacks and mean frame houses had been torn down, and banks, stores, and hotels, of stone or steel and cement rose in their places. Great irrigation ditches were dug and a period of feverish prosperity began.

Though the frost was almost arctic outside, the rotunda was pleasantly warm and was dimmed, in spite of its glaring lamps, with a haze of cigar smoke. In front of the great plate-glass windows rows of men sat in tilted chairs, their feet on a brass rail, basking in the dry heat of the radiators. Drummers and land speculators were busy writing and consulting maps at the tables farther back among the ornate columns, and the place was filled with the hum of eager voices. The town was crowded with homestead-selectors, and many, braving the rigors of winter, were camping on their new possessions in frail tents and rude board shacks, ready to begin work in the spring. Indeed, determined men had slept in the snow on the sidewalks outside the land 285 offices to secure first attention in the morning when cheap locations were offered for settlement.

Laxton had had a tiring day, and he was leaning back lazily in his chair, watching the crowd, when a man entered the turnstile-door, which was fitted with glass valves to keep out the cold. He looked about the room as if in search of somebody; and then after speaking to the clerk came toward the land agent. Laxton glanced at him without much interest, having already as much business on his hands as he could manage. The stranger wore an old fur-coat and looked like a rancher.

“Mr. Laxton, I believe,” he said, taking the next chair.

The land agent nodded and the other continued:

“My name’s Prescott. I’ve come over from Sebastian to have a talk with you.”

“I suppose I’ll have to spare you a few minutes,” said Laxton with more resignation than curiosity.

“In the first place, I want to ask if you have ever seen me before?”

Laxton looked at him with greater interest. The man’s brown face was eager, his eyes were keen, with a sparkle in them that hinted at determination.

“Well,” he said, “I can’t recollect it.”

“Would you be willing to swear to that?”

“Don’t know that I’d go quite so far; I don’t see why I should.”

Prescott took out a sheet of paper with some writing on it.

“Do you recognize that hand?”

“No,” said the agent decidedly. “It’s a bold style that one ought to notice, but I don’t think I’ve seen it.” Then he looked up sharply. “What you getting after?” 286

“I’ll explain in a minute. Let me say that I’ve examined the land sale record here, and have found a deal registered that you were concerned in. It was made in the name of Cyril Jernyngham.”

Laxton started.

“Look here,” he said, “I’ve had a lot of trouble over this thing since I was fool enough to write to the police; in fact, I’ve had enough of the Jernyngham case.” He broke off for a moment as a light dawned on him and then went on: “It’s a sure thing I haven’t met you, but, when I think, there was a young lad something like you among others in blanket-coats in a photograph a sergeant brought me. Montreal snowshoe or toboggan club, I guess.”

“I don’t know how the police got it. But what did you tell the sergeant?”

“Said it was no use showing me a photograph like that, because I didn’t trade with kids.”

“Then, as I’m the man the police suspect of selling that land of Jernyngham’s, it would be a great favor if you’ll tell me candidly what you know about the matter.”

“Hang up your coat,” said Laxton; “I’ll do what I can. Anyway, you’re not the fellow I made the deal with.”

He drew out a cigar-case when Prescott came back.

“Take a smoke and go ahead. I’m willing to talk.”

“First of all, turn over the paper I gave you and look at the signature.”

“Cyril Jernyngham!” exclaimed Laxton, astonished. “I see your point—the hand ought to be the same as that on the sale registration form, and I might have been expected to recognize it, but I can’t remember all the writing I see. However, we’ll compare it with the other signature to-morrow.” 287

“When you do so, you’ll find a difference.”

“Ah!” said Laxton. “Then whose hand is this?”

“Cyril Jernyngham’s. It was written in my presence, and what’s more important, in the presence of another man. Now will you tell me what the fellow who made the deal with you was like?”

Laxton did so, and Prescott thought the description indicated Wandle, though he was not the only man in the neighborhood of Sebastian to whom it might apply.

“Did you notice how he was dressed?” he asked.

“He had on a suit of new brown clothes.”

Prescott sat still, his brows knitted, his right hand clenched. The reason why the clothes had been hidden near his house was obvious, but there was something else: a blurred memory that was growing into shape. Ever since he had heard about them from Muriel, he had been trying to think where he had seen the clothes, and at last he seemed to hold a clue. In another few moments it led him to the truth; everything was clear. He had once met Wandle driving toward the settlement wearing such a suit, and by good fortune he had shortly afterward been overtaken by a farmer who must have seen the man. In his excitement he struck the table.

“Now I know!” he cried. “The man who forged Jernyngham’s name hid his clothes near my house to fix the thing on me. I owe you a good deal for your help in a puzzling matter.”

The agent was sympathetic, and after Prescott had given him an outline of his connection with the case, they sat talking over its details. Laxton had a keen intelligence and his comments on several points were valuable. When Prescott went to sleep it was with a weight off his 288 mind; but his mood changed the next day and he traveled back to Sebastian in a very grim humor.

Open and just as he was in all his dealings, Wandle’s treachery infuriated him. There would, he felt, have been more extenuation for the trick had the man killed Jernyngham, but that he should conspire to throw the blackest suspicion on a neighbor in order to enjoy the proceeds of a petty theft was abominable. He must be made to suffer for it. However, Prescott did not mean to trouble the police. He had had enough of their cautious methods. He determined to secure a proof of Wandle’s guilt, unassisted, without further loss of time, and to do this he must obtain a specimen of the man’s writing to compare with that on the land sale documents. There was, he thought, a way of getting it.

Reaching Sebastian in the evening, he was going to the livery-stable to hire a team when he met an acquaintance who offered to drive him home. As the man would pass within a mile or two of Wandle’s homestead and there was a farm in the neighborhood where he might borrow a horse, Prescott agreed. His companion found him preoccupied during the journey. He put him down at a fork of the trail, and Prescott, walking on quickly through the darkness, saw Wandle’s team standing harnessed when he reached the house. This was a sign that their owner had recently come home, and Prescott, opening the door without knocking, abruptly entered the kitchen. The lamp was lighted and Wandle, standing near it with his fur-coat still on, looked startled. Prescott was sensible of a burning desire to grapple with him and extort a confession by force, but there was a risk of the crude method defeating its object, and with strong self-denial he determined to set to work prudently. 289

“I see you have just come in, and I’m anxious to get home, so I won’t keep you more than a few minutes,” he said.

“How did you come?” Wandle asked. “I didn’t hear a team.”

“Harper drove me out. I walked up the cross trail; but that doesn’t matter. The last time we had a talk we fell out over the straightening up of Jernyngham’s affairs.”

“That’s so; you still owe me a hundred dollars.”

“I don’t admit it,” said Prescott, who had laid his plans on the expectation of this claim being made. “Anyhow, the dispute has been dragging on and it’s time we put an end to it. It was the small items you wanted to charge Jernyngham with that I objected to, and I may have cut some of them down too hard. Suppose you write me out a list.”

“I can tell you them right away.”

“Put them down on paper; then we can figure them out more easily.”

“Don’t know if I’ve any ink,” said Wandle. “Haven’t you a notebook in your wallet? You used to carry one.”

Prescott made a mistake in putting his hand into his pocket, which showed that he had the book, but he remembered that it would not suit his purpose to produce it.

“I’m not going to make out your bill,” he said. “That’s your business. Give me a proper list of the di............