“In Bridgeboro? You don’t remember? How you spoke to me in the street? Last fall—no?”
“Reckon I was in Canada then,” he said. “That’s where Slade lives, huh? No, I ain’t never been there.”
I paused, baffled. And meanwhile, he resumed his work, ignoring me. I felt, as I always felt when speaking with Rivers, that I had been put at a disadvantage. I had tried to verify a conviction, and had only been reminded that I was not a man of the woods. It was a sneer, ever so skilfully conveyed.
CHAPTER XVIII—SEEING IS BELIEVING
So that was that. I told Tom of my encounter with Rivers and he said, “Well, I suppose that settles it.” Brent was even more brief. “Hmph, funny,” he said.
“Tom,” said I, “did Rivers ask you for that job; I mean working out near the end of the trail?”
“Sure, why?”
“Why—I don’t know,” I answered hesitatingly. “I suppose you’ll say I’m always getting impressions, but it seemed to me as if—well, when I happened along the road it seemed to me as if he was startled. And it occurred—it just occurred to me—that maybe he wanted to be right there.”
“Why?”
“Well,” I hesitated; “maybe so he could sort of be on the lookout. You think not?”