O'Connor was quite willing to oblige. “Carter is a big chap by all accounts, and Erskine's friend. Why should he choose a place so certain to be discovered as a hotel bedroom? Why not take Erskine for a run in a motor, stun him, and drop him into a pond? I can't think he's such a fool as not to have been able to make some better opportunity than that wardrobe.”
“Fit of passion, sir?”
“But,” objected O'Connor, “why the marks of tugging on Erskine's collar which the photo shows?”
When Watts had taken a belated departure, O'Connor looked at his friend.
“So they're crooks. I shouldn't have thought that somehow. Your account of the honest marks of wear on Erskine's wardrobe made me put him down as poor but honest.”
Pointer only smoked on, his hands clasped behind his neck.
“D'ye think some of your light-fingered friends have welcomed their brethren from across the ocean and the lot have fallen out?”
“This doesn't look like the work of anyone I can call to mind at the moment.” Pointer ruminated over the masterpieces he had come across in the past. “Still you never know,” he wound up.
During the night a cable from Calgary arrived and was duly waiting on his table at the Yard.
“Calgary. Robert Erskine, Scotsman. Inherited largest ranch here, Four Winds by name, from his uncle, Ian Erskine, twelve years ago. Sold it seven years ago at a loss and moved to Toronto. Reputation of uncle and nephew of the best in every way.”
“John Carter. Frequent visitor at Four Winds. Prospector and son of a Toronto Prospector. Good repute.”