"Yes," acknowledged the sergeant, "but, at the same time, there was treachery in the mind of one of them. When they had finished eating they went aside from the fire and sat together on a bank under the maple tree, where they remained for a long time, smoking cigarettes. Henri never suspected what was coming. But the other knew. He was nervous, very nervous."
"Eh?" interrupted Dan Medlicott. "Nervous? How on earth did you make such a discovery as that?"
Silk took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the tobacco ash on the rail of the verandah.
"Well," he answered. "For one thing, it was shown by the fact that, having spoilt a cigarette paper, he tore it up into little bits. For another thing, he used quite a heap of matches to keep his cigarettes alight, and he chewed the ends of his cigarettes to tatters. He was restless, too, always moving, cutting the dry grass and ferns with his spurs, and digging his heels into the parched ground. They were high heels, like those of a cowboy's boots."
"An Indian would have worn moccasins, and no spurs," said Dan.
"Why, cert'nly," assented his companion. "It's clear he wasn't an Indian. I'm inclined to think he was a half-breed, the same as Henri himself. Still, I'm puzzled."
"I don't wonder," nodded Dan. "You don't seem to have got any clue that's of much value, except the weapon. What has become of Henri's horse? It wasn't stolen, you say."
"No. The fellow was too cunning to risk being discovered in possession of his victim's broncho. He left it hobbled in the forest, where I found it. It's there now, in charge of one of my men—Trooper Collins."
Silk had wrapped the dagger in its windings of dirty cloth, and now he thrust it back under the cover of his tunic.
"Will you do me a favour, Dannie?" he asked, as he went down the steps.