“Though it doesn’t agree with your conclusions? Sit down; we have a number of things to talk about.”
“Well, sir,” said Curtis, “this is certainly a mixed-up case. I’ve said nothing all along to disturb people’s belief that it was Prescott we were after, but if I had to corral one of the two, I’d get Wandle. The land agency man gave us a good description of him.”
His superior nodded thoughtfully.
“Prescott impersonated Cyril Jernyngham before his supposed death, and Wandle personated him afterward; the latter with the more obvious motive. The point is that there’s no evidence of collusion, but rather disagreement, between the two. Of course, we could arrest Wandle now.”
“Yes, sir. As soon as the agent identified him, we could prove forgery and falsification of the land sale record. He’d be safe in the guard-room or a penitentiary.”
“Just so; we will have him there sooner or later, but if he’s guilty of the more serious charge, he’d have no opportunity for giving himself away. I’d rather he was left at large and you kept your eye on him. The same applies to Prescott. Now I’ve been making a fresh study of the diagram of the footsteps near the muskeg, and I can see no fault in the conclusions you arrived at—only the remains can’t be found.”
“Sure, that’s a weak point, sir. But I might mention the case of the person who was found in a bluff a few miles from home after they’d searched the district for six months.”
“It has been in my mind. But you have other matters to report on. What about the disturbance on the Indian reservation?”
While they discussed it, Jernyngham set out for the Leslie homestead and on his arrival found Gertrude alone. Sitting down with a shiver, he looked at her dejectedly.
“I have failed again. They will do nothing; there’s no satisfaction to be had,” he said. “I drove out my son by arbitrary harshness, and now the only reparation I might have made is denied me.”