“To whom it may concern:
“I, Louis Frischette, am about to kel myself because I am veery much desappoint. I write thes so no other man be acuse an’ put in jail for what I do. Signed: “Louis Frischette.”
Dick’s hand shook as he handed the paper back to the policeman.
“I’m not convinced yet,” he declared.
“But here’s the evidence—the proof right here.” Rand patted the slip of paper.
“It might be explained,” Dick pointed out.
“What!” The corporal looked startled.
“How do you know that Emery and Burnnel did not force Frischette to write that note before they murdered him?”
Rand did a peculiar thing. He stared at Dick for a moment in absolute silence, then turned without a word and walked back into the stable and led out his horse. Not until he had sprung into the saddle did he trust himself to speak.
“I’m going back. I ought to be jerked back there by the nape of my neck. What have I been dreaming of? Dick, I’ll take off my hat to you. It’s a fortunate thing that one of us, at least, has not been wholly deprived of the faculty of sober reasoning.” He smiled grimly. “If this ever got to Cameron’s ears, I’d be fined six months’ pay.”
“But I may be wrong,” Dick flushed at the other’s compliment.