"Go on!" said Murgatroyd.
"And here was—" Pemmican stopped again.
"What are you looking at?" Murgatroyd asked. "Oh, that?" he said casually, and passed the wallet to Pemmican.
Pemmican started and backed away.
"I don't want it. It ain't mine. I don't know what it is—what is it, anyhow?" he gulped. "No, counsellor," he added; "and besides, I wasn't looking at it."
Murgatroyd patted the wallet.
"It was Colonel Hargraves's pocketbook," he said. "I thought you recognised it."
"Never saw it before, counsellor," he repeated sulkily; "never saw it before."
"You must have seen it," persisted Murgatroyd; "it's pretty well worn, and he must have carried it a long time. He was one of your patrons. The fact is, Pemmican," he went on, "this wallet was the occasion of my sending for you just now. I am informed that when Hargraves last carried it the wallet was full of bills; and when he was found in the street it was quite empty. It is a mere detail, but I should like to know whether Challoner robbed this man as well as killed him."
Pemmican slowly shook his head.