“We have found out the culprit,” cried Dent, as he was saying good-night.
“The culprit?” said Mandy. “What do you mean?”
“The fellow who has engineered this whole business.”
“Who is it?” said Cameron.
“Why, listen,” said Dent. “Who got the logs from Bracken? Smith. Who got the Inspector to send men through the settlement? Smith. Who got the lumber out of the same Inspector? Smith. And the sash and doors out of Cochrane? Smith. And wiggled the shingles out of Newsome? And euchred old Scotty Hepburn into building the fireplace? And planned and bossed the whole job? Who? Smith. This whole business is Smith's work.”
“And where is Smith? Have you seen him, Mandy? We have not thanked him,” said Cameron.
“He is gone, I think,” said Mandy. “He left some time ago. We shall thank him later. But I am sure we owe a great deal to you, Inspector Dickson, to you, Mr. Dent, and indeed to all our friends,” she added, as she bade them good-night.
For some moments they lingered in the moonlight.
“To think that this is Smith's work!” said Cameron, waving his hand toward the house. “That queer chap! One thing I have learned, never to judge a man by his legs again.”
“He is a fine fellow,” said Mandy indignantly, “and with a fine soul in spite of—”