He rubbed his hands delightedly as he read the message over to himself a second time before placing it in its envelope. It was from the police headquarters, and its wording was full of significance in the light of last night’s events. Allan Dy was glad he had not gone on to the saloon.
The message was desperately curt.
“Wagon returned to Fort Allerton empty. Report. Jason.”
The postmaster had just placed the message with the officers’ mail when the two policemen entered. Fyles’s expression was morose, and his manner repellent. McBain was grim and silent.
“There’s a goodish mail, Mr. Fyles,” said Dy, without a trace of his real feelings, as he held out the bulky packet of letters. “That message has just come along over the wire.” He pointed at the tinted envelope enclosing the telegram.
While Fyles took his mail, McBain’s keen eyes were at work upon the letters spread out on the counter.
Fyles’s silent manner induced the curious official to go a step further.
“It’s from headquarters—Superintendent Jason,” he said, covertly watching the policeman’s face.
But the effect was not quite as satisfactory as he hoped. Fyles smiled.
“Thanks. I was expecting it.”