Malone squinted at the tree-tops. “Our instructions are to work slowly and surely. We are not to leave a stone unturned. It may take six or eight weeks.”
“In other words, you are not expected to be through before election day.”
“Unless we find what we are after before that time, Mr. Baxter,” said the other. He had been out at the back of the house, surveying with his eye the stretch of swamp land. “It is a big job, as you can see for yourself. Like looking for a needle in a haystack, eh, Charlie?”
His partner nodded his head in silent assent.
“We’ll go out and take a walk around the swamp to-morrow,” said Malone. “If you’ve got the time to spare, Mr. Baxter, you might stroll out with us now to the place where you last saw your father. That will have to be our starting point. Then I’ll want to question your servants. It seems that he is supposed to have come home to change his clothes after he said good-by to you.”
“He did not say good-by to me,” corrected Oliver. “He didn’t even say good night. Please get that straight, Mr. Malone. He was angry with me—and I do not deny that I was angry myself. We parted in anger.”
“Do you know a man named Peter Hines, Mr. Baxter?” asked Malone abruptly.
“Pete Hines? Certainly. He is a tenant of my father’s. Lives in a shack up at the other end of the swamp. He has done odd jobs for us ever since I can remember. Wood-chopping, rail-splitting and all that. He also does most of the drinking for the estate,” he concluded dryly.
“A souse, eh?”
“I’ve never known him to be completely sober—and I’ve never heard of him being completely drunk. He’s that kind.”