That night Paul handed all the papers he had taken from Sleeman to Dalton, with his father’s red book. “I want you to go through these for me,” he said. “I am anxious to get clear of this mortgage and everything else.”
Dalton took the papers and spent an hour over them, becoming more and more indignant as he mastered their contents. The day following he went to the Bank of Montreal and continued his investigations. To him the whole affair was absurdly simple.
“Who is this Sleeman?” he asked Paul, when he was ready with his report.
“A neighbour of ours, with whom my father had dealings.”
“A philanthropist, I judge, a friend, and a gentleman, eh? Let me get into grips with him!” said Dalton savagely. “We’ll bring blood out of his heart!”
“I don’t want his blood,” said Paul shortly. “I could have had that. I want to get this mortgage cleaned up.” And thereafter Paul proceeded to give the story of his father’s transactions with Sleeman, as far as he knew them. Dalton listened with set lips and gleaming eyes.
“I should like very much to see this gentleman.”
“You’re going to see him,” said Paul. “You and I leave for the Windermere tomorrow. I’ve got a month, off for both of us from Tussock, and Gunning is to look after our affairs.”
Dalton gazed at him in amazement. “You sure have your nerve! A month’s holiday! You’re one smooth boy, all right.”
“Yes,” continued Paul coolly, “there are some guns at home, and some sheep on the mountains. You’ll go, won’t you, Dalton?”