“There was nothin’ to that, Ben. The old man said he didn’t see hair nor track of him after that one minute. It wasn’t even a good lie. It was jist the commencement of one—an’ then Noel got wise to the fact that he couldn’t git it across even if he took the trouble to invent it.”
Ben smiled and sat back. The waitress was at his elbow. He ordered peach pie with cream and coffee. Mr. Brown ordered apple pie with cheese on the side and tea, and the waitress retired. Again Ben leaned forward.
“That wasn’t a lie, and that stranger shot Balenger,” he said.
“Shoot. I’m listenin’.”
“He shot him from the top of the bank on the other side of the river, upstream, exactly two hundred and eighty-six yards away.”
“Was yours apple or mince?” asked the waitress, suddenly reappearing with both arms full of pieces of pie and brimming cups.
The deputy sheriff turned the face of the law on her.
“Leave it an’ beat it an’ don’t come back to-day!” he cried.
“He came from the city of Quebec,” continued Ben, “and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the police there know something about him.”
Mr. Brown looked at once suspicious and impressed.