"You've had a rough time, pard," said he, "and something of a reverse, if what we've learned is true, but you're stacking up pretty well for all that. What sort of a place is this, anyhow?"
"It's Phillips' old rendezvous," said Matt.
"Phillips?" echoed Cameron. "Do you mean Siwash Charley, Matt?"
"No one else."
"Have you any proof of it?"
"Wait a minute."
Matt ran into the dugout and presently reappeared with the suit case.
"Chance threw that in my way," said he, "and, by trying to save it for you, Cameron, I very nearly got myself into more trouble than I could manage. Look at these initials." Matt pointed to the letters "G. F." on the end of the stained and mouldy grip. "This must be the very satchel, don't you think," he added, "that the drummer received by mistake, over in Devil's Lake City?"
Cameron was so amazed he could not speak. Taking the suit case from Matt, he opened it up on the ground. It was not locked and opened readily.
There were stained and mouldy documents inside—blue-prints, tracings, and pages of memoranda.