"I reckon there ain't two Edward Pullars. Therefore I conclude there ain't any mistake either."
Deliberately Foyle drew a package from his pocket. Drawing out two papers he opened them carefully and, stooping, held them before the old man.
"Them's the real thing," said Foyle casually. "Take a good, long squint. You'll find everything proper."
Edward Pullar examined the documents. They were, indeed, agreements of surrender and exchange signed by Foyle and a signature that was undoubtedly his own. The transaction was duly witnessed by Silas Marshall, magistrate. The old man stared at the papers, striving to catch the flying tags of mystery. Things seemed to clear a little, resulting, however, in deeper depression.
"I did not sign it," said he dazedly.
"Here, hired man," said Foyle, handing the papers to Ned. "Go right through 'em. You'll find them agreements square as an eight-inch bent."
Ned looked. A close study of the documents astonished him. The signature ascribed to his father was clearly his. As to Silas Marshall's there could be no mistake. He had seen it many a time. A seriousness spread over his face, mingling slowly with the amazement in it.
"This seems all right," said he, slowly perusing the papers. "But—but, of course, these papers are simply evidences of some fraud."
The date caught his eye. In a lightning play of thought he associated the mystery with the tragic trip to Pellawa. He straightened up and his chin rounded in a decisive firmness.
"Do you remember having anything to do with Cy Marshall, Dad?" was his quiet question.