"That talk was the morning after the unfortunate stage—business," she went on with just a little break in her voice at the mention of the crime. "Bart went forth in his borrowed uniform to establish himself at the hotel as befits an officer. He dropped in here for supper and we had a fine talk. He told me that nobody seemed to doubt his authority and that the whole camp was breathing easier at sight of the scarlet and gold."
Exactly like a woman to be accurate about the clothes he wore, thought Seymour, and he pictured the swath the handsome crook must have cut in the new camp all excited with its first big crime.
"Bart knew that he would have to work fast," the woman was saying. "From letters or orders he found in the bag, he was aware that you would soon be coming in plain clothes. In spite of the fact that he would be acting in the name of the Law and that all his so-called lifting would be from Montreal crooks, he'd be forced to make a getaway over the Alaskan border, from there to catch some through steamer to the States."
"Montreal crooks!" More than ever was Seymour now interested. Was it possible that, in that inexplicable way of the almost trackless wilds, his trail here would cross that of Harry Karmack's—that his unsolved assignment might be completed and his pact with Moira validated? Harry Karmack, he well knew, had been hand in glove with the worst of Montreal's underworld characters, although there the lawless element had been able to cover the embezzler.
But the woman was going on: "It was agreed that I'd stay right here running this eating place, until I heard from him. You see, it was safe enough, for we had been very careful and no one suspected that there was any relationship. After that evening, I never saw Bart again to speak to."
That she might not yield to this call upon her emotions, Seymour put out a couple of rapid fire questions. "You think, then, that one of these so-called Montreal crooks got him? Any line on them?"
"No line," she answered regretfully, after a moment's thought: "None at all, unless— There's a young woman he met up the creeks, a missionary's relative, I believe. I saw her speak to him one day on King Street and, of course, he had to explain. He met her when he was just plain Barton Caswell and was out prospecting. From her uncle, he learned of the wrongs being done by the Montreal gang, but until that uniform fell into his hands, he did not conceive any way of getting the best of them. Perhaps these missionary folks can help you."
Evidently Bart had played his cards with the skill of an expert, thought Seymour. From the widow's impassioned admission she held no grudge against the Duperow girl. There had been no hint of slur in her tones that mentioned the younger, prettier woman. All this suggested that she must have had implicit faith in the crook's love for her.
Declaring his intention of looking up the mission folks, the sergeant returned to the subject of the loot. Had she asked no further about the nature of it?
"I surely did, but his answer was always the same. 'Richer than gold, Marge, richer than gold.' He said he'd be the first mounted policeman in the history of the Force to make a clean-up, even if he was one only for a week. This stroke was to mean luxury for me, a home in an orange grove in California, diamond rings set in platinum, fine dresses—everything! I think this morning, when he rode out so bravely, that he hoped never to come back to Gold. The loot is up there in the creeks, you know, and Alaska is still further on. Any hour the real staff-sergeant—who has turned out to be you—might have ridden in, as, in truth, you did."