"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?"

"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."

"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 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, una.s.sisted, 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 doc.u.ments. 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 pa.s.s 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.

"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 disputed expenses and we'll see what can be done."

He was a poor diplomatist and erred in showing too keen a desire to secure a specimen of the other's handwriting, which is a delicate thing to press an unskilful forger for. Wandle was on his guard, though he carefully hid all sign of uneasiness.

"Well," he said, "I'll send you a list over in a day or two; after all, if I think them over, I may be able to knock something off one or two of the items. But now you're here, I want to say that you were pretty mean about that cultivator. They're not sold at the price you allowed me."

This was intended to lead Prescott away from the main point and it succeeded, because, being at a loss for an excuse for demanding the list immediately, he was willing to speak of something else while he thought of one.

"You're wrong," he said curtly. "You can get them at any big dealer's. I looked in at a western store where they stock those machines, yesterday, and the fellow gave me his schedule."

He had taken off his mittens, but his hands were stiff with cold, and when he felt in his pocket he dropped several of the papers he brought out. The back of a catalogue fell uppermost, and it bore the words, "Hasty's high-grade implements, Navarino." Near this lay an envelope printed with the name of a Navarino hotel.

There was nothing to show that Wandle had noticed them--he stood some distance off on the opposite side of the table--but Prescott was too eager in gathering them up. Opening the catalogue, he read out a description of the cultivator and the price.

"Taking the cash discount, it comes to a dollar less than what I was ready to pay you," he said. "Now make out the list and we'll try to get the thing fixed up before I go."

Wandle sat down for a few moments, for he had received a shock. His suspicions had already been aroused, and Prescott's motive in going to Navarino was obvious; besides, he thought he had read Laxton's name on the envelope. He could expect no mercy--Prescott's face was ominously grim--and there was no doubt that, having seen Laxton, he knew who had hidden the brown clothes. The game was up, but, shaken by fear and rage as he was, he rose calmly from his seat.

"Well, since you insist on it, I guess I'll have to write the thing; but I can't leave my team standing in the frost. Sit down and take a smoke while I put them in."

Prescott could not object to this. He lighted his pipe when Wandle left him. He heard the door shut and the horses being led away, for the stable stood at some little distance from the house, and after that no further sound reached him. Mastering his impatience, he began to consider what he would best do when Wandle had given him the list. He supposed he ought to hand it over to Curtis, but he was more inclined to go back to Navarino and compare the writing with the signature on the doc.u.ments relating to the sale. Then, having proof of the forgery, he would communicate with the police. He was sensible of a curious thrill at the thought that the suspicion which had tainted him would shortly be dispelled.

After a while it occurred to him that Wandle should have returned, but he reflected that the man might be detained by some small task. After waiting some minutes longer, he walked to the door, but finding that he could not see the entrance to the stable, he stood still, irresolute. He thought he had been firm enough, and to betray any further eagerness would be injudicious. The matter must be handled delicately, lest Wandle take alarm.

When he had smoked out his pipe, Prescott could no longer restrain his impatience. He hurried toward the stable. The moonlight fell on the front of the building and the door was open; but Prescott stopped with a start, for all was dark inside and there was no sign of the vehicle in which the rancher had driven home. A worse surprise awaited him, for when he ran inside and struck a match it was clear that Wandle and his team had gone.

Prescott dropped the match and stood still a few moments, in savage fury.

There was no doubt that he had been cleverly tricked; Wandle, guessing his object, had quietly driven away as soon as he had led the team clear of the house. Moreover, Prescott had good cause for believing that he would not come back. With an effort, he pulled himself together. To give rein to his anger and disappointment would serve no purpose; but he had no horse with which to begin the pursuit. He remembered having told Wandle so when he first entered the house. Striking another match, he lighted a lantern he found and eagerly looked about. A plow team occupied two of the stalls, and though they were heavy Clydesdales with no speed in them, they would be capable of traveling faster than a man on foot. As he could not find a saddle, he ran back to the house and returned with a blanket. A bit and bridle hung on a nail, he found a girth, but his hands were cold and he spent some time adjusting straps and fastening on the blanket before he led one of the horses out and mounted.

The moonlight was clear enough to show him that there were no fresh wheelmarks in the snow. Wandle had kept to the trail, and Prescott surmised that he would travel south toward the American boundary.

Although he feared he would lose ground steadily, he meant to follow, since there was a chance of the fugitive's being delayed by some accident, which would enable him to come up. It was extremely cold, Prescott was not dressed for riding, and the folded blanket made a very bad saddle. At times pale moonlight shone down, but more often it died away, obscured by thin cloud. The trail, however, was plain and the big Clydesdale was covering the ground. Prescott's hands and feet grew numbed, and there was a risk in this, but he trotted steadily on.