Jake could understand this, though the rest was dark. Pepe was an Indian boy who brought water and domestic stores to the shack, but would have no excuse for entering it at night.
“I allow he meant to dope the coffee,” Payne resumed.
This was alarming, and Jake abruptly glanced at the table. The intruder must have been close to it and behind him when he heard the step, and might have accomplished his purpose and stolen away had he not struck the match.
“He hadn’t time,” he answered. “We had better see what he was doing in the house.”
Payne put away his pistol and they entered Dick’s room. Nothing seemed to have been touched, until Jake placed the lamp on a writing-table where Dick sometimes worked at night. The drawers beneath it were locked, but Payne indicated a greasy finger-print on the writing-pad.
“I guess that’s a dago’s mark. Mr. Brandon would wash his hands before he began to write.”
Jake agreed, and picking up the pad thought the top sheet had been hurriedly removed, because a torn fragment projected from the leather clip. The sheet left was covered with faint impressions, but it rather looked as if these had been made by the ink running through than by direct contact. Jake wrote a few words on a scrap of paper and pressing it on the pad noted the difference.
“This is strange,” he said. “I don’t get the drift of it.”
Payne looked at him with a dry smile. “If you’ll come out and let me talk, I’ll try to put you wise.”
Jake nodded and they went back to the veranda.