“I sold one copy one day when Dewberry was here—before I gave him back the book. I made a second copy, but I didn’t sell it for months afterwards. Dad and I had a quarrel and I ran away. I played cards and I lost money—all I had. I tried to sell the copy. I showed it to a few men, but they laughed at me. Then one night, when I was at a road-house a queer looking chap, named Crane, gave me ten dollars for it.”
“Are you sure his name wasn’t Creel? Stop and think a moment.”
“Creel! Creel! That’s it.” Reynold looked at the policeman in surprise. “How did you know?”
“I found out,” answered Rand.
“So you see, dad, it wasn’t anything so very terrible,” Reynold ran on. “I—”
“Can you repeat what you copied from the book?” Rand interrupted.
“No, not word for word. It was something about an old chest that Dewberry had at his home at Peace River Crossing—full of money; about a key that he carried around his neck.”
“Would you remember if I read it to you?”
“Yes, I would,” answered the boy.
Corporal Rand crossed the room, knelt down, and opened his saddle-pack. A moment later he returned, carrying Dewberry’s diary, resumed his seat, and began thumbing the pages. It was several minutes before he found the right place. Then he read: