“Hate to see the work of some man’s hands wasted,” he told himself. “Many a poor shopkeeper on Maxwell Street would be glad to own it.”
At that he wrapped it in his morning paper and at last deposited it in back of a small desk in Drew Lane’s room. There it was to remain until the time appointed. Then it was to offer its bit of evidence regarding certain dark deeds committed on a night in November of that same year.
* * * * * * * *
The snow that had fallen steadily since the hour before dawn upon that tiny island in Tobin’s Harbor of Isle Royale ceased at ten o’clock.
Standing before the window, Red Rodgers watched a scene of matchless beauty unfold before him. Dark, unruffled waters widened moment by moment until at last trees, great dark giant spruce and slender ghosts of birches, began appearing.
When at last the snow fog had vanished altogether he saw on the not-too-distant shore spruce and balsam standing like rows of tall tents of the Indians.
And even as he stood there some dark object moved amongst the birch trees.
“A moose!” he exclaimed under his breath. Then again he wondered that the girl had shown no fear at their encounter with an antlered monarch back there on the trail.
“Life,” he told himself, as he watched the great sleek creature on the opposite shore step out to stand ankle deep in water, head high, antlers gleaming, “Life is strange! Here I have lived all my life in a city. Never would have known of this other world but for the work of these outlaws who carried me away. And now—”
He paused. Well, what of now? He could form no answer.