“But there are other Canucks in town, outside Little Canada,” said Trafford.
The report included all. The man had determined the whereabouts of every Canadian of sixteen years of age and upwards, and there was not one who bore marks of the blow delivered on the bridge the night before.
“But he was a Canuck,” said Trafford, with positiveness that admits no question; “and it’s a bigger miracle than any of their relics ever performed before, if he don’t carry a broken bone to-day. There’s somebody missing.”
The man shook his head. He had accounted for the last of them.
“Do you think it was a dream or a nightmare?” Trafford demanded, with some asperity.
The man shrugged and lifted his shoulders, in deprecation of the tone of the demand.
“All right,” said Trafford at last. “Take the afternoon train to Augusta and resume your work there. I’ll give this personal attention.”
The man hesitated a moment and then, coming close to him and lowering his voice, spoke rapidly and anxiously.
“You are taking risks, Mr. Trafford. This is no ordinary case. You can’t tell what you’ve got against you. Two men can go safely where one can’t.”
“And one can go safely sometimes where two are a danger. I’ve taken risks all my life—it’s my business to take ’em. You don’t suppose I chose this business because of its freedom from danger, do you?”