“That’s the kind I like,” said Brent. “All murders ought to be ten or fifteen years old. I like one where the wrong man goes up for life and then years after a young lawyer marries his daughter and hunts out the real murderer. New murders I don’t care about.” “If you’ll be serious for a minute,” said Tom, “I’ll tell you about it and maybe you can help me. It’s got something to do with old Dyker. “A long time ago his grandson was accused of killing a man in Kingston named Merrick. The old man kind of told me something about it, but you know how he is; it was a kind of a jumble. “While I’m in Kingston I’d like to find out something about it if I could. Only I don’t just exactly know how. I thought maybe you could help me. About all I know is that an old man named Merrick was killed and that he lived in Kingston. Pop Dyker says his grandson never did it; I guess likely he did, though. Anyway I’d kind of like to find out about it.” “That’s a cinch,” drawled Brent. “All that it’s necessary to do is to go to one of the newspaper offices disguised as an every-day citizen. It might be well to carry a loaded fountain pen. In an offhand way ask permission to look over the old newspaper files. There you are.” “Trouble is I don’t know just exactly what year it was, even.” “One might starve while wandering through the desert files,” said Brent. “Your point is well taken.” “You make me tired,” Tom complained. “If I knew the year that the old village of West Hurley was moved to make way for the big reservoir—I think that would be the year. You’re so good at arguing and debating and all that,” he added with his characteristic simplicity, “I thought maybe you could help me.” “Tomasso,” said Brent, “leave it to me. I will track down the murder if not the murderer. If it is hiding in the fastnesses of the _Kingston Journal_ I will find it. Leave everything to me. Mr. Derrick or whatever his name is, shall not escape me even though he is dead. I am a scout and I have the Pathfinder’s badge. You go to the freight station and when you get through come to the office of the _Journal_. On entering steal cautiously to the file room. If you see me looking over the files do not recognize me unless I adjust my spectacles. That will be the sign that—” “You make me tired,” Tom said. “Are you really going to do it or not?” “I am going to do it,” said Brent. “But when you come if I am wearing a false beard do not be surprised. If I tap three times with my fountain pen you will know it is I and that the way is clear. This is a dangerous business, Slade, and we can’t be too careful. Leave all to me.” “It’s no wonder that Pee-wee Harris calls you crazy,” said Tom. CHAPTER XI OUT OF THE PAST