  Dick and Sandy turned from their inspection of the treasure. “What’s that you’ve been reading?” Sandy demanded. “Dewberry’s diary.” “Is that the book I handed you a few moments ago?” “Yes,” the answer came from Corporal Rand. “I believe it will prove of invaluable assistance to us in this case.” The corporal still held the book in his lap, and seemed loath to discontinue its perusal. The excerpts he had read aloud to Wyatt had still further excited his curiosity, a curiosity which was shared by the other policeman. The man from the Peace River Detachment consulted his watch. “It’s only three o’clock, Rand,” he pointed out. “We still have plenty of time at our disposal. I’d enjoy hearing more from that book. Why not continue, corporal?” Rand turned the pages at random, his keen blue eyes glancing over the contents. In a clear, musical voice he continued: “November 12, 1912.—Why is it that my chest from Honan continues to fascinate me? Sitting here at home this evening, my thoughts dwelt upon it. Twice I opened it and removed the trays, one by one, with the rapt interest of a child; removed them and placed them on the floor beside me. How indescribably bare it looks. I’m sure it wasn’t like that during the Ming dynasty. “November 17, 1912.—Today I finished reading Marco Polo’s wonderful narrative. Very naturally, it turned my thoughts to the chest. I’m obsessed with a whimsical fancy. My chest, I am quite sure, was at one time the depository for the jewels and wealth of the great Ming himself. I visualize all those mysterious compartments overflowing with the treasure from seven seas. This one contained diamonds; this one rubies; this one sapphires and emeralds. In the remaining trays there are quantities of silver and gold. Just to heighten the illusion, I have placed the contents of three pokes in one of the trays. Then I locked it up. I, too, shall have my treasure.” Corporal Rand ceased reading. Dick and Sandy laughed. “Queer old duck, wasn’t he?” Dick commented. “Well, I don’t know as I blame him any. It is mysterious.” Corporal Rand did not reply. He turned a few pages idly, then read again: “June 2, 1913.—I have found the Crystal Lode. Could scarcely believe my good fortune. Came upon it more by accident than design. Tremendously rich. Here and there, I found evidences of the workings of old Dave Crystal. Will be compelled to keep this a secret. Took out over a thousand dollars yesterday.” “Whew!” gasped Sandy. Rand was excited too. He turned the pages more quickly. “October 1, 1914.—I’m back at the Crossing earlier than usual this year. Brought a good deal of gold with me. Raced it in the chest. It will soon be filled to overflowing. The depository of the great Ming has come into its own. “November 10, 1914.—Lipton would smile if he knew what I was up to. Today—the third since my arrival in Edmonton—I converted nearly eight thousand dollars worth of gold from the Crystal Lode into precious stones. The jewelers here must think I am mad. Almost overnight, I have changed my vocation. In place of being a collector of rare old books and antiques, I have become a connoisseur of gems. “November 12, 1914.—Professor B— of the University of Alberta, had lunch with me at the Cecil Hotel. Our talk was on various subjects but finally I led him, rather adroitly, I think, to a topic which, at present, is my all-absorbing passion. Did Professor B— know anything about jewelry, precious stones? He did. I have yet to touch upon a subject he is not interested in. During our conversation, he happened to mention casually that the Dalton’s, who are very wealthy people here, possess what is undoubtedly the most valuable sapphire in this country. I think I must have pricked up my ears at this information. During the rest of the day, I could think of nothing else. Perhaps tomorrow I shall pluck up enough courage to go and see Dalton. “November 13, 1914.—The Dalton sapphire is mine. Paid forty thousand for it. Dalton is not an agreeable person to deal with. I almost came away without it. Was forced to draw on my account at the Bank of Montreal. Dalton demanded a certified check and made a number of pertinent inquiries over the telephone. In spite of his haughty manner, he must need the money. Didn’t even offer to shake hands with me at parting.” Rand closed the book, pointing at the chest. “It’s easy to see now where he got those things. For years he’s been converting the gold from the Crystal Lode into precious stones.” “Merely to satisfy a whim,” smiled Wyatt. A moment later Rand resumed reading: “August 8, 1915.—What an inconceivable ass I am. Yesterday in some unaccountable manner, I lost my note-book. I have been in the habit, while away on these prospecting trips, of writing each day’s events in a note-book, and later copying them in my diary at home. Hope no one ever finds it. ‘My thoughts are precious things’ and I wouldn’t care to have some fool laughing over them. Also, I fear that in the book I made mention of the chest. Worse luck!” A sudden silence followed the reading of this last excerpt. Then Wyatt rose to his feet and began pacing up and down the floor. “That has a direct bearing on this case,” he announced suddenly. “MacGregor must have found that note-book—or Creel or Frischette.... Any of those scoundrels. It’s the only possible way they could have learned of the existence of this chest and the two keys Dewberry carried with him. I am as sure of that as I am that I am standing here.” “Extremely likely,” admitted Rand. “Of course. And if we can determine which one of those men found the note-book, we’ll have some valuable evidence.” “It may force a confession from them,” said Rand. “Just before we came down here, as you remember, Inspector Cameron endeavored to cross-examine them. It was useless. Well, I haven’t lost hope that we may succeed next time. I’ll take this diary with me.” “May I look at it?” requested Sandy, holding out his hands. “What about the treasure?” asked Dick. “What will we do with the chest?” “Our inspector will attend to that,” answered Wyatt. “Probably will be removed to the new Bank of Commerce, just recently established here.” “There are two likely places, where one might find that note-book,” mused Rand, “—at Creel’s and Frischette’s.” “We can stop at both places on our way back,” suggested Dick. “A good idea. Then there’s MacGregor’s shack too, I—” “Listen to this,” interrupted Sandy, waving one arm about excitedly. In his haste to open it, the diary slipped from his trembling fingers and fell to the floor. Picking it up, he experienced some difficulty in finding the right page again. The others waited impatiently. Finally, Sandy read: “September 28, 1915.—The first heavy snow of the season has come early this year. Imagine my surprise this morning to wake in a blinding snow storm. It is driving me away from the Crystal Lode. After breakfast, I made haste to set out with my two pack-ponies, and arrived at Carson’s cabin shortly after two. I have always made it a point to stop at Carson’s whenever possible. They are friendly people. Mrs. Carson is an Indian, but exceedingly pleasant and well educated. A cook too! I can’t understand why a couple like that should be afflicted with such hopeless offspring. Their daughter, about fifteen, is vicious, while their son, Reynold, two years older, is a young cutthroat, if ever there was one. This afternoon I found him in my room, quite brazenly going through my things. It caused me to wonder if, after all, Reynold doesn’t know something about that lost note-book. I recall that I stopped here just the day before I discovered it was gone. “September 29, 1915.—I am almost sure that Reynold has it. Today he was copying something out of a book—a black leather note-book—that looked suspiciously like mine. He rose when he saw me and beat a hasty retreat. I can’t accuse him openly just yet, but when I come back this way in the spring, I intend to lay a trap for him. That young scoundrel really ought to be put in jail, although I am afraid I never would have the courage to do it myself. It would break both Mr. and Mrs. Carson’s hearts.” Sandy paused. “Have you finished? Is that all?” In his eagerness, Corporal Rand stepped over behind the young Scotchman and looked down at the open book. “No,” answered Sandy, “it is not all. Here is another paragraph, dated September 30—just a day later.” “I purposely remained at Carson’s one more day. Thought I might be able to keep an eye on Reynold, catch him again with the book and this time positively identify it. Unfortunately for me, nothing happened. Carson sent his son out with an armload of traps in the forenoon, and after lunch, two prospectors, Emery and MacGregor, stopped for an hour or two on their way east to Fort Good Faith. Carson introduced both men and we conversed for a few minutes. Can’t say I liked either one. If I were forced to choose a person to hang me, I think I’d name MacGregor. Emery’s face is too vile—even for a hangman’s.” “Ugh!” Dick’s voice trembled. “If only he had known!” “October 1, 1915,” Sandy read on. “I can scarcely believe it yet. Perhaps there is a redeeming trait in the boy after all. At any rate, Reynold came to me this morning, as I was preparing to leave, and gave me my book. I was so astounded that I simply stood staring at him. According to his story—which, of course, I accepted, although I knew it was a lie, ‘trembling unto heaven’—he had found the book after my last visit here. He found it in my room, he explained, ‘just where I had dropped it.’ I breathed a sigh of relief that was almost a gasp, thrust the accursed thing hastily into my pocket and departed thence—sans two nuggets (worth about twenty dollars) which I had given him as a reward for his honesty.” “The brat!” choked Wyatt. “Yes,” stormed Rand, “that young scoundrel concocted a devil’s mess indeed. He’s the one that ought to be hanged for Dewberry’s murder.” “But why?” Dick asked innocently. “Why? Can’t you see. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. He copied the contents of the note-book and gave it to Emery and MacGregor.” |
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