Soon that expression was gone, though its shadow still rested on his thin and pale features.
"This mystery of which I have come to tell you," he said suddenly, "is an old, old one."
I glanced at Milton Rhodes.
"Then why," he asked, "bring it to me?"
An enigmatic smile flitted across Scranton's face.
"Because it is new as well. You will soon see what I mean, Mr. Rhodes. You will see why, after all these years, I suddenly found myself so anxious to see you that I couldn't even wait until this storm and deluge ended."
From the inside pocket of his coat he drew a leather-covered notebook, much worn and evidently very old.
"This," said he, holding the book up between thumb and forefinger, "is the journal kept by my grandfather, Charles Scranton, during his journey to, and partial ascent of, Mount Rainier in the year 1858."
Milton Rhodes glanced over at me and said:
"Our little deduction, Bill, wasn't so bad, after all."