There remained a pocket-comb and mirror, a pipe—its bowl somewhat battered—two hunting knives and the ring with the two keys. As Dick picked up the last named object, Meade gave vent to a startled cry and jumped forward.
“Let’s see it! Let’s see it! Give it to me!”
“I think they belong to one of the outlaws,” answered Dick.
“Outlaws!” shrieked Meade, his face distorted. “I should say not! They’re Dewberry’s keys. I’d know them anywhere.”
A hush came over the room. An old-fashioned clock ticked loudly. Presently Meade’s feet shuffled away from the table and he went over and sat down. His head dropped in his hands. For several minutes he sat there in deep abstraction. He was thinking deeply. Then, with unexpected suddenness, he bounded to his feet.
The three other occupants of the room surrounded him in a body.
The free-trader waved them to their chairs.
“Sit down,” he commanded, “and I’ll tell you all about it. But I must begin at the beginning, so that it will all be clear to you.”
“Dewberry was my friend. I was his guest one time at Peace River Crossing. You know where his place is?” He turned to Wyatt.
“A little cottage on a hill. Overlooks the Hart River,” answered the policeman.
“I knew him slightly,” said Wyatt. “But I’ve seen him often enough. An unusual character.”
“Exactly. He _was_ queer—queer in many ways. He loved books—scores of them in his book-cases. A violinist and pianist too! But the most peculiar thing of all about him was his aversion to human companionship. He had no real friends. He was shy and reserved. Kept to himself. For months at a time, he would be away somewhere in the foothills prospecting. Then he’d return again to Peace River Crossing and become absorbed in his books; or else he’d go out to Edmonton.”
Meade paused to light his pipe. He puffed reflectively. It was several moments before he resumed:
“The minute I laid my eyes on that key-ring with its two keys, I knew it. I’d seen it many times before.”
As he spoke, Meade exhibited the ring and selected the larger of the two keys.
“This,” he informed them, “is the key to the front door of Dewberry’s cottage.”
“And the second?” Rand interrupted, unable to check his curiosity.
“This key, gentlemen,” Meade held it up and announced dramatically, “is, I think, the key to your mystery, the cause of all your trouble. It was the thing that MacGregor wanted when he murdered its owner, that Frischette died for, that Creel, Emery, Burnnel and the squaw fought over. In other words, unless I am very badly mistaken—and I don’t think I am—this key unlocks a large iron chest that stands in the front room of Dewberry’s cottage.”