“It’s not uncommon,” the factor answered dryly. “Ah, here we are at April! Half a page of entries at the least! Massingham, Clarke, Bent, Duvallard—”
He paused with an exultant little cry, and Christopher Burley, bending further over him, noted where his finger rested near the bottom of the page.
“Osmund Maiden!” the law clerk shouted in a tone of wild excitement. “It is he! it is he! There, you can read it! plainly! Success at last!”
“You are right, sir!” exclaimed Macdonald. “Here we are; ‘April the 19th, 1788—Osmund Maiden, one trunk, marked 409.’ Doubtless this is your man.”
It was a thrilling moment, and I felt a sudden and keen interest in the discovery, which I had by no means expected. I stared at the faded inscription on the brown page, written there nearly twenty-eight years before. Then I looked at Christopher Burley. I had never seen him so deeply stirred. He was rubbing his hands together, drawing quick, short breaths, and examining the book with an expression of mingled triumph and anxiety.
“But how is this?” he asked hoarsely. “Look: a line is drawn through every name on the page except that of Osmund Maiden.”
“His name is not erased,” replied the factor, “because he never came back—because the receipt for his trunk was never presented.”
“Ah, I see!” muttered the law clerk. “He never came back. Twenty-eight years in the wilderness! I fear he is dead.”
“That is the most reasonable way to look at it, sir.”
“And yet he may be still alive, Mr. Macdonald. Surely if he stopped at Fort Garry he made some mention of his future plans.”