The door opened and Sambo burst into the room.
“I put de hoss inter de stable, Massar Smiff,” he cried.
“Why, who had your horse, Smythe?” asked Hallibut.
Smythe’s weasel eyes shifted from the big man to Sambo.
“I loaned her to—to Alexander Wilson this morning,” he faltered.
“That’s funny,” returned the Colonel. “I met Wilson driving a span of oxen as I was coming here. Say, Sambo, feed my dogs, like a good fellow; I want to push on.”
Half an hour after the hoof-beats of Hallibut’s horse had died away Watson crept into the room. He was breathing heavily and his swarthy face was drawn and haggard. Mr. Smythe wisely asked no questions.
The agent sank into a seat before the fire. He sat fumbling in his pocket and from it finally drew out a leather wallet. He opened it and extracted from it a photograph. He held it out in a shaking hand and looked at Smythe.
“I’ve hung on to this,” he faltered, “because you thought we ought to keep it—because you thought if the baby was alive we might know it from this likeness.”
Smythe nodded, and Watson leaned forward and put the photograph in the red coals.