“That,” he whispered excitedly, “is not my mitten. No one’s been here but Jerry. It’s not his either. How—”
He broke off. Fully awake now, he was beginning to put facts together. He had awakened with a sense of cold. The room was frigid; yet the window was open only a crack. No gale was blowing. And now here was a mitten belonging to no one he knew. And it lay by the window.
“Some one has been in this room,” he told himself. “He lost his mitten. I’ve been robbed!” A thrill shot up his spine. “But in Edmonton of all places! The police are speedy and successful in their work. If I’ve been robbed I’ll—”
Once more he broke off. He had not been robbed; at least his most valuable possessions, his purse and his watch, had not been taken.
“The mystery deepens.” He searched his mind for some motive and found it at once.
“The paper, the copy of that message taken from the pigeon!” he exclaimed breathlessly.
He thrust nervous fingers into his inner coat pocket.
“Right at last. It is gone!
“And now,” he thought, sitting down upon his bed, “what’s next?
“I might call the office and tell them what has happened. They would call the police. There would be an investigation. The police would ask questions. I had been robbed? What of? A paper? What paper? A message? What message? How did you come by it? How indeed? And how much right had I to copy a message taken from a carrier pigeon?”