He seated himself at his desk, glanced over a row of account books, that were shelved within reach, and finally took down a small leather-bound volume that looked to be on the point of falling to pieces.
“Ah, this is it!” he exclaimed. “I thought I could lay my hands on it promptly.”
Christopher Burley and I stood behind his chair looking over his shoulders, as he turned the faded, musty-smelling leaves one by one. The law clerk’s cheeks were slightly flushed, and a rapt and expectant expression was on his face.
“1780,” muttered the factor—“’83—’85—’87—was that the year?”
“He left England in the year 1787,” Christopher Burley replied eagerly, “in the month of June. Try September to start with.”
“It’s rather too early,” said Macdonald. “There are only five entries in September,” he added, as he glanced rapidly down two pages, “and a smaller average for the remaining months of that year. Now we come to 1788. I have not found your man yet. Let me see—January, February, March—they are unlikely months, and contain scarcely an entry.”
The search was growing doubtful, and I felt sorry for Mr. Burley.
“We are not through yet,” I said cheerfully.
“Perhaps, sir,” suggested Macdonald, “Osmund Maiden took another name when he came to Canada.”
“No, no,” the law clerk exclaimed sharply. “I hope not. He could have had no reason for doing such a thing.”