"Yes."
"If we could get that man—?"
"Look here, Doctor," and Carney put his hand on the other's knee, "whoever has got that money will not try to take it out over the railroad, for it was in fifty-dollar bills of the Bank of Toronto."
"I comprehend: the wires, and the police at every important point; a search. Aye, aye! What'll he do, Bulldog?"
"He'll go out over the thieves' highway, down the border trail to Montana or Idaho."
"My guidness! I think you're right. Perhaps before morning somebody may be headin' south with the loot. If it's Shipley—I mean, anybody—he may have a colleague to take the money down over the border."
"Yes, the money; he'll not try to handle it in Canada for fear of being trapped on the numbers."
"So you might not get the murderer after all," Anderson said, meditatively; "just an accomplice who wouldn't squeal."
"No; not with the money alone on him we wouldn't have just what I want, but when we get a man with the marked pack in his pocket that's the murderer. It was devilish fatalism that made him take that pack, like a man will cling to an old pocket-knife; they're the tools of his trade, so to speak. And here in the mountains he could not handily come by another pack, perhaps."
"I comprehend. If the slayer goes down that trail he'll have the marked cards with him still, but if he sends an accomplice the man'll just have the money on him. Very logical, Bulldog."