“Right or wrong, we can’t afford to take any chances. In any event, I’m going back before Emery and Burnnel slip out of my hands.”
And, in an incredibly short space of time, he was gone. A turn in the woodland path shut him from view. But, even long after he had gone, Dick and Sandy stood looking down the trail, across which laggard twilight had flung its darkling banners. Sandy broke into an amused chuckle.
“That’s one on the corporal. He won’t be in a very pleasant frame of mind for the remainder of the evening, will he?”
Dick scowled.
“You must remember, Sandy, that we all make mistakes. Rand’s oversight is excusable. He’s been working on this case day and night for the last six months. He’s tired out, and sometimes so sleepy that he can hardly stick in the saddle.”
“Yes, that’s right.” The laugh died on the young Scotchman’s lips. “He’s had a lot to contend with. And perhaps he hasn’t made a mistake after all. Frischette may have committed suicide. The note might not have been forced from him. Who can say?”
“Yes,” said Dick, “who can say? Why don’t you put on your thinking cap, Sandy, and find a motive for Frischette’s act?”
“That’s a bargain. We’ll find the motive. We’ll go over the details carefully in our minds and try to come to some conclusion.”
Sandy grinned. “And tomorrow morning we’ll compare notes.”
They were interrupted at this juncture by the appearance of Toma. They could see at once, from that young man’s expression, that something unusual had happened. His face, sober at all times, was unusually gray and depressed. As he came forward quickly, he kept glancing from one to the other interrogatively.