During the further ride over the narrow stretch of prairie that they were crossing towards the foothills, Silk was uncommonly silent, volunteering no opinion concerning Charlie Fortescue. Percy began to believe that his companion regarded the case as of no especial interest or importance. Even when questioned, the sergeant gave him little satisfaction.

"Haven't you made up your mind about it?" Percy asked abruptly.

"Well, you see," returned Silk, "we've heard only one side of the story as yet, and you can't always go by first impressions. What's your own opinion, Percy?"

"Seems to me things look rather rocky against Charlie," Percy observed. "The evidence is dead against him, and that yarn of his about saving up on the quiet isn't very convincing—especially when he wants you to believe that the money he'd collected was so exactly the same amount that Sam Crisp had saved. Two hundred pounds; neither more nor less. It's too much of a coincidence, too much like a story made up after the event. Assuming that Sam Crisp didn't rob himself, it's perfectly clear that Charlie took the money, since no one else knew where it was hidden."

"That remains to be seen, however," rejoined Silk. "I happen to have been inside of Crisp's harness-room. I happen to have noticed the hole in the wall that Charlie referred to; and it isn't the first time that it has been used as a hiding-place for articles of value, by others, as well as Sam Crisp himself. It was foolish of him to leave a bag of sovereigns there. He almost deserves to have lost it. He might as well have left it on the front doorstep."

"Then you don't seriously believe that Charlie Fortescue was the thief?" questioned Percy.

Sergeant Silk did not answer, but spurred his horse to a canter, which was continued until they came beyond a bluff of birches and in sight of Crisp's homestead, lying in the midst of its blossoming orchards and far-stretching fields of green wheat.

"That rain last night has done a heap of good to the old man's crops," he remarked as he drew to a halt at the ford before crossing the swollen creek.

He was looking down at the moist ground of the sloping bank, where there were the impressions of a man's boots.

"I suppose you're thinking that Charlie must have got a wetting, wading across here on foot?" said Percy.

"No. I was thinking of the man who crossed a few hours in advance of him on horseback," returned Silk. "He appears to have been in something of a hurry, by the look of those hoof-marks. Be careful in the middle of the stream. Follow my lead."

At the farther side of the creek he dismounted, giving his bridle to Percy to hold.

Percy watched him as he strode away in the direction of a clump of dwarf oaks, pausing now and again to examine the ground. He went in among the trees and was out of sight for several minutes, and when again he appeared he was walking along the cart track by the edge of Crisp's orchard. Percy joined him with their two horses.

"What's that you've got in your hand?" he inquired, as the sergeant raised his foot to the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle.

"Looks like some fellow's cloth cap," said Silk, holding the thing suspended between a finger and thumb. "I found it over there, hanging from a tree branch. I guess the owner lost it while he was making his way through the bush. He couldn't find it, anyhow, for all his searching and groping about the ground."

"Do you mean he was blind?" Percy exclaimed.

"Blind? No!" Silk smiled. "I mean he lost it—had it brushed off his head—when it was dark night. If it had been daylight, he'd have seen it dangling from the twig that caught it as he passed."

"And why have you brought it away with you?" Percy was curious to know. "It doesn't look worth restoring to its owner. I should have let it hang."

"I suppose you would," nodded Silk. "But although it's only a worn-out cloth cap, heavy with rain, I'm interested in it—very much interested. I've learnt a lot about its owner already."

"I don't see how," said Percy. "What do you know about him, anyhow?"

Sergeant Silk thrust the cap under his arm and took the rein in his fingers.

"Not more than you could have found out yourself," he answered. "I followed his trail and discovered that he'd left his pony hitched to a tree, back of the bluff there, while he went on foot through the orchard towards Crisp's homestead, coming back the same way. It was when he was returning that he lost his cap; and, not finding it, he mounted and rode away. He's a tall man. He has coarse red hair, and he has lost the forefinger of his left hand."

Percy stared at his companion in surprise.

"Did you discover all that in the few minutes you've been prowling over there in the bush?" he asked.

"Why, cert'nly," Silk intimated, touching his broncho's flank with his heel.

"How do you know he is tall?" Percy interrogated.

"Simply because the branch that swept off his cap was high—on a level with my own head."

"How about the colour of his hair?"

"Oh, well," returned the sergeant, "that's only an inference made from the fact that I found two or three red hairs clinging to the lining of his cap. It's likely that the rest of his hair is the same colour. But the only thing I'm certain about is that he has only three fingers on his left hand. You see, he'd been groping about, searching for his cap, leaving his traces on the ground made moist by the rain, and the impressions of his left hand in the mud always showed the absence of a finger."

"I see," nodded Percy. "And what does your discovery amount to? Do you connect this chap with the robbery of Sam Crisp's bag of gold?"

"Well," returned Silk, "it's a kind of proof that some one was prowling around the ranch in the middle of the night. Certainly he appears to have wanted to keep his visit a secret. But maybe Sam will explain. I see he's waiting to receive us."

The ranch master met them on the grassy clearing in front of his dwelling.

"Glad to see you, Sergeant," he began. "Say, if you'd happened along a few hours earlier you might have had the job of taking a thief red-handed."

"Indeed?" said Silk, assuming ignorance of his meaning.

Sam Crisp then proceeded to tell him of the theft of his bag of gold, showing that he had not the slightest doubt that Charlie Fortescue was the culprit.

"Did you wish to give him into custody?" the sergeant inquired.

"Dunno 'bout that," demurred Sam. "You see, having proved him guilty, I kinder took the law into my own hands and fired the ungrateful scoundrel off the premises. In a way, I'm satisfied. I've escaped having a thief and a liar for son-in-law. I've saved Dora from having a mean, low-down impostor for husband. And I've got possession of the stolen money that he'd hidden away in the bottom of his trunk. No, I'm well rid of him, and I don't reckon that his being in prison would do me any sort of good."

Sergeant Silk looked at him keenly.

"Doesn't it occur to you that he may be innocent?" he asked very quietly. "Could no one else have got into the harness-room?"

"Impossible! Absolutely impossible!" protested Sam. "What's the good of supposing any such thing? The money was found in Charlie's box, and if he denied his guilt until he was blue in the face, I wouldn't believe him."

"So?" reflected Silk. "Well, just as a matter of form, I'll have a look round in the harness-room, before going on. Give my respects to Miss Dora."

Percy Rapson accompanied him to the now open doorway of the little room. On the threshold Silk paused, examined the blurred footmarks on the moist earthen floor, glanced at the ventilation hole high up in the wall just below the rafters, then shook his head.

"I'm afraid Sam is right," he muttered as he turned away. "Unless——" He touched Percy's elbow. "Come round to the back of this shanty," he said.

Percy watched him searching along the ground and saw him stand still, looking down at some curious marks on a bare patch of wet soil.

"Do you see? Do you understand?" Silk asked in an eager voice. "Some chap has been crawling round here on all fours. See the round marks of his knees—the sharp grooves made by the toes of his boots, and—and the impressions of his hands?"

"My hat!" cried Percy. "Why, the left hand has only three fingers!"

"Seems we're on his trail," smiled the sergeant. "D'you see that dirty old packing-case? Just lift it and put it against the wall. So, that's right. Now stand on it and see if you can reach up to where you see that loose slate. Ah!" he exclaimed as Percy obeyed him, "I see you're not tall enough. And neither is Charlie Fortescue. Let me show you."

He took Percy's place on the box, and, standing on his toes, reached to the slate, moved it, and thrust his hand in at the opening.

"Say, there wasn't any need for Sam Crisp to lock the door when his bag of gold could be reached from the outside," he declared. "The man who took it has left his mark on the wall, see, with his muddy hand. It doesn't matter to us how he found out that the money was there. He has stolen it and carried it off. And I guess I know where we shall find him. Come along! Let's hustle!"

Late in the afternoon of that same day Sergeant Silk and Percy Rapson rode into a logging camp among the mountains and put up their horses for the night. Work for the day was not yet over, and Percy was glad of the opportunity of watching the lumber-men who were busily felling and trimming the immense trees, and hauling the great logs along the skidways.

The forest glades were filled with the shrieking of steam saws, the panting of donkey-engines, and the thudding blows of axe and adze.

Percy was fascinated by the unfamiliar sight of a gigantic log coming jerkily up a steep incline, butting at boulders, colliding with trees, ploughing deep furrows in the earth and smashing and crashing through the thicket.

"Keep clear of that cable, mister," one of the men warned him. "It might break. You see, when it's hauling a ten-ton log at full steam, and the log fouls a rock, something's sure to give, and it's usually the cable. It wouldn't be nice for you to be hit by one of the flying ends."

Percy did not look round at the man; neither did he stand back, and the warning had hardly been repeated when there came an ominous, jarring, crunching noise, followed by a sound that was like the firing of a great gun. Something resembling a coiled snake whistled through the air towards him, and in the same instant he was seized from behind and flung bodily backward.

When he rose to his feet, unhurt, he saw what had happened. The man who had saved him—a tall, red-bearded man—had been struck on the back of the head by a flying end of the broken cable. Sergeant Silk was kneeling at his side. Percy saw him take hold of the dead man's left hand and noticed that the hand had no forefinger.

"It's Dick Ashton," murmured one of the men who had gathered round. "Poor Dick, he's done for, sure. And him only just come in for a fortune. Went to draw it from the bank only yesterday. Wonder if he got it, eh? He seemed some satisfied with himself when he rode into camp this morning, hatless and covered with mud."

Sergeant Silk unbuttoned Dick's vest and there fell out a chamois leather bag, which sent forth the unmistakable jingle of coins. As the sergeant took possession of it, he glanced upward at Percy Rapson.

"I think we have proved that Charlie Fortescue is innocent," he said. "Don't you?"

"Yes," Percy nodded. "But I wouldn't tell any of Dick's chums, here, anything about it, eh? You'll keep it quiet, won't you?"

"Why, cert'nly!" agreed Silk.