"What's the trouble?" asked Dick.
"A twinge in my knee. I am growing old," answered Wigmore in pathetic tones. And to this day, the trapper has never fully realized how near he was at that moment to a sudden and choking oblivion.
The old man began to limp after half an hour of tramping the frozen roads and scrambling through underbrush and deep snow. At last he sat down on a hemlock stump and confessed that he had reached the end of his endurance and must go home. He was sorry; but it was better to drag himself home now than keep at it a few minutes longer and then have to be carried. Goodine agreed with him; and after a short rest the old man set out on his homeward journey. As long as he was in range of the trapper's vision he staggered wearily; but once beyond it he scuttled along like a little dog. He was anxious to get home and assure himself that none of his neighbors were exploring his house during his absence.
Dick Goodine continued his unsuccessful searching of woods, roads, and fields until dawn. He crossed the trails of other searchers several times, but not once the trail of Mr. Banks' big and familiar hunting boots. Upon returning to Rayton's, he found Jim Harley, Benjamin Samson, Doctor Nash, and several other men drinking coffee in the kitchen. Reginald had been driven off to his bed by Nash only a few minutes before. An air of gloom and mystery pervaded the room. Doctor Nash alone showed an undaunted bearing. He talked loudly, and slammed the back of his right hand into the palm of his left continually.
"Banks is no fool!" he exclaimed, for the tenth time. "Do you think he'd walk out of this house and lose himself on a night like this? Rot! Tell me who set fire to Davy Marsh's camp, who tied old Fletcher up in that blanket, and who shot Rayton, and I'll tell you who knows where Banks is. It may be one man, or it may be a gang doing the work; but there's one man at the back of it all. Same with the marks on the cards. At first I put it all down to you, Jim; but I couldn't see why you should tie up old Fletcher. Now, I see it pretty straight. That Fletcher business was all a bluff. He let somebody tie him up—and, as I've told you a dozen times, that somebody is old Wigmore. What do you say, Dick?"
The others all turned and stared at the trapper with anxious, sleep-shadowed eyes.
"I ain't sayin' yes or no yet a while, doc," replied Goodine. "What you say sounds pretty reasonable; but I wouldn't swear to it. I ain't a fancy detective, but when I see a lot of smoke I can guess at fire as well as the next man. Old Fletcher's vanished, anyhow—an' so has Mr. Banks. I don't hold that what happened to Reginald has anything to do with the other queer business. Accidents will happen! But I guess Captain Wigmore is lyin' when he says Tim Fletcher went to New York; an' I guess he was actin' the goat when he let on as how he thought Doc Nash marked them cards. But guessin' won't find Mr. Banks!"
"Of what do you accuse Captain Wigmore?" asked Jim Harley, gripping Dick's arm. "I've heard a lot of hinting, but no straight charge. Speak up like a man and be done with it. Say what you mean. I'm sick of listening to hints against the old man behind his back."
In the silence that followed, the trapper looked steadily into Harley's eyes, and gently but firmly unfastened the grip of the fingers on his arm.
"Keep cool, Jim," he said. "Keep a tally on yer words."