“No.”
“Were you acquainted with Dewberry?”
“I knew him slightly,” said Wyatt. “But I’ve seen him often enough. An unusual character.”
“Exactly. He was queer—queer in many ways. He loved books—scores of them in his book-cases. A violinist and pianist too! But the most peculiar thing of all about him was his aversion to human companionship. He had no real friends. He was shy and reserved. Kept to himself. For months at a time, he would be away somewhere in the foothills prospecting. Then he’d return again to Peace River Crossing and become absorbed in his books; or else he’d go out to Edmonton.”
Meade paused to light his pipe. He puffed reflectively. It was several moments before he resumed:
“The minute I laid my eyes on that key-ring with its two keys, I knew it. I’d seen it many times before.”
As he spoke, Meade exhibited the ring and selected the larger of the two keys.
“This,” he informed them, “is the key to the front door of Dewberry’s cottage.”
“And the second?” Rand interrupted, unable to check his curiosity.
“This key, gentlemen,” Meade held it up and announced dramatically, “is, I think, the key to your mystery, the cause of all your trouble. It was the thing that MacGregor wanted when he murdered its owner, that Frischette died for, that Creel, Emery, Burnnel and the squaw fought over. In other words, unless I am very badly mistaken—and I don’t think I am—this key unlocks a large iron chest that stands in the front room of Dewberry’s cottage.”