Part 24 (1/2)

The train drew up.

”Well, of all the nuisances!”--cried Philip, disgusted, as they prepared to leave the car.

Yerkes, like the showman that he was, began to descant volubly on the advantages and charms of the hotel, its Swiss guides, and the distinguished travellers who stayed there; dragging rugs and bags meanwhile out of the car. n.o.body listened to him. Everybody in the little party, as they stood forlornly on the platform, was in truth searching for Anderson.

And at last he came--hurrying along towards them. His face, set, strained, and colourless, bore the stamp of calamity. But he gave them no time to question him.

”I am going on,” he said hastily to Elizabeth; ”they will look after you here. I will arrange everything for you as soon as possible, and if we don't meet before, perhaps--in Vancouver--”

”I say, are you going to hunt the robbers?” asked Philip, catching his arm.

Anderson made no reply. He turned to Delaine, drew him aside a moment, and put a letter into his hand.

”My father was one of them,” he said, without emotion, ”and is dead. I have asked you to tell Lady Merton.”

There was a call for him. The train was already moving. He jumped into it, and was gone.

CHAPTER XII

The station and hotel at Sicamous Junction, overlooking the lovely Mara lake, were full of people--busy officials of different kinds, or excited on-lookers--when Anderson reached them. The long summer day was just pa.s.sing into a night that was rather twilight than darkness, and in the lower country the heat was great. Far away to the north stretched the wide and straggling waters of another and larger lake. Woods of poplar and cottonwood grew along its swampy sh.o.r.e, and hills, forest clad, held it in a shallow cup flooded with the mingled light of sunset and moonlight.

Anderson was met by a district superintendent, of the name of Dixon, as he descended from the train. The young man, with whom he was slightly acquainted, looked at him with excitement.

”This is a precious bad business! If you can throw any light upon it, Mr. Anderson, we shall be uncommonly obliged to you--”

Anderson interrupted him.

”Is the inquest to be held here?”

”Certainly. The bodies were brought in a few hours ago.”

His companion pointed to a shed beyond the station. They walked thither, the Superintendent describing in detail the attack on the train and the measures taken for the capture of the marauders, Anderson listening in silence. The affair had taken place early that morning, but the telegraph wires had been cut in several places on both sides of the damaged line, so that no precise news of what had happened had reached either Vancouver on the west, or Golden on the east, till the afternoon.

The whole countryside was now in movement, and a vigorous man-hunt was proceeding on both sides of the line.

”There is no doubt the whole thing was planned by a couple of men from Montana, one of whom was certainly concerned in the hold-up there a few months ago and got clean away. But there were six or seven of them altogether and most of the rest--we suspect--from this side of the boundary. The old man who was killed”--Anderson raised his eyes abruptly to the speaker--”seems to have come from Nevada. There were some cuttings from a Nevada newspaper found upon him, besides the envelope addressed to you, of which I sent you word at Roger's Pa.s.s. Could you recognise anything in my description of the man? There was one thing I forgot to say. He had evidently been in the doctor's hands lately. There is a surgical bandage on the right ankle.”

”Was there nothing in the envelope?” asked Anderson, putting the question aside, in spite of the evident eagerness of the questioner.

”Nothing.”

”And where is it?”

”It was given to the Kamloops coroner, who has just arrived.” Anderson said nothing more. They had reached the shed, which his companion unlocked. Inside were two rough tables on trestles and lying on them two sheeted forms.

Dixon uncovered the first, and Anderson looked steadily down at the face underneath. Death had wrought its strange ironic miracle once more, and out of the face of an outcast had made the face of a sage. There was little disfigurement; the eyes were closed with dignity; the mouth seemed to have unlearnt its coa.r.s.eness. Silently the tension of Anderson's inner being gave way; he was conscious of a pa.s.sionate acceptance of the mere stillness and dumbness of death.

”Where was the wound?” he asked, stooping over the body.