“Yes and no! We believe he hides it out there all right. But we’re pretty sure that he sells some of it occasionally. We do know that two years ago last summer he went to Seattle. He was away about six months. When he returned he was rolling in money and told a very interesting story about a legacy he had received from a brother, recently deceased. We believed the yarn then—but we don’t now! In fact,” Rand spoke sarcastically, “we’re somewhat inclined to the opinion that while he was there he met one or two unscrupulous gentlemen who offered to accompany him up the coast for the fun and profit to be derived.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” laughed Dick.
“He probably hasn’t sold any of the fur since then. I think that when you go out there, you’ll find that Richardson’s theory is correct. There’ll be a big cache—”
“When I go out there?” interrupted Dick, staring in astonishment at the policeman.
“Yes—you, Sandy and Toma. Surely, you’d be willing to do that much for us, Dick. Sergeant Richardson said that you’d jump at the chance.”
“But—but—”
“We’re so sure that you’ll find the cache, that we’re willing to pay all the expenses of the trip—and a liberal reward in the bargain. What do you say?”
“Say!” choked Dick. “I can’t say enough. What I want to know is—do you really mean it?”
“I was never more serious in my life.”
Dick rose to his feet and paced agitatedly back and forth. His heart had jumped a few wild beats before he could compose himself sufficiently to make another effort to speak.