At that, Moira showed that she knew her Ottawa, for Rideau is the street on which face the red brick headquarters of the Royal Mounted. Would that she had never left the capital! Would that he could waft her home again, sacrifice though that would be in this ice-bound isolation!
Straight to Avic's hut he went and broke the seal upon the door, as was his right. Again his eyes were upon all that remained of her "merry brother." He wondered about death and the hereafter and various things that never should enter a Mountie's mind—not when he's stationed north of Sixty-six.
Then, suddenly, his eyes seemed to open as though a mote had been cast from each. Perhaps this was effected by the magic of Moira's charm and beauty. Certainly he saw details that had not impressed him the previous afternoon.
As might a wolverine in defense of her young, he pounced upon the silver fox pelt that lay on the sleeping bench beside the murdered youth—lay in such a way as to indicate its purchase had already been negotiated. He studied the set of the fur and sniffed at the tanning on the inner side. His eyes widened as he held the beautiful exhibit before him and realized the possibilities that were opened up by this definite clue.
"Magic skin," he murmured half aloud after the fashion of men who find themselves often alone in the wilderness. "You widen the mystery; may you help to close it!"
Gently, without shrinking from the cold touch, he removed the last clutch of O'Malley's fingers from the black fox—probably the pelt of ostensible contention. Close examination of this showed the same conditions to exist.
Neither of the foxes had been trapped in the present winter; both had been cured at least a year.
"Magic skin," he repeated, and breathed a wish too fervent for utterance even in the hut where he stood alone.
In the act of wishing, memory put its finger on him. There came to mind that famous tale of Balzac's, "The Magic Skin." The story dealt with the hide of an ass which, with every wish invoked from it, shrank until the greedy owner was threatened with the disappearance of his magic possession.
Perhaps Seymour had best cease wishing. But he recalled he had a pair of magic skins in hand; grew defiant of the venerable myth, and wished again, more fervently even than before that it would fall to his lot to solve the deepened mystery of the Oliver O'Malley murder.