In the clearings, Catherine and Gaspard carried on and hoped for the best. Catherine had made the trip to Racquet Pond with the warning to the fugitives in a snow-storm, and so had left no tracks either going or coming. Gaspard spied on the camp of the sleuths now and again; and, finding it always in the same spot, he twigged their game. He wondered how long their patience would last.
One morning the detective came knocking on the door of the big log house. Catherine opened to him; and he entered weakly and sat down heavily on the floor. One of his cheeks was discolored just below the eye and his lower lip was swollen.
“A drink, please,” he said, in a voice of distress. “Anything—even cold tea. I feel all tuckered out.”
The girl gave him a cup of coffee.
“Ye look kinder like ye’d caught up to Tom Anderson,” remarked Gaspard. “An’ whar’s yer pardner?”
“Him!” exclaimed the detective, his voice shaken with anger. “That big slob! He’s lit out for home—and beyond.”
“But he told us, weeks ago, that you had gone out to the settlements—that both of you had given up looking for Tom Anderson,” said the girl.
The detective swallowed the last drop of coffee, shook his mittens from his hands, pulled off his fur cap and pressed his hands to his head.
“The liar!” he cried. “He’s a fool—and he’s made a fool of me, with his story about that man Anderson bein’ an officer—the great Major Akerley. I must hev been crazy to believe him for a minute. And now the big slob has beat it for the settlements; and he’ll keep right on goin’, for the Law’s after him now—or will be as soon’s I’m fit to travel agin.”
“Maybe yer lyin’, an’ again maybe yer tellin’ the truth,” said Gaspard. “Howsumever, we’re listenin’.”