“It’s as plain as the nose on your face--that part of it,” he said. “Hunter sent for these men; had them go to the forks to join a pretended gang, and word was left there for ’em to go on to the hut back of the Madison Beeches.” “Hunter?” his companion asked. “Certainly. Isn’t he the man who owns the trees to such a simple lad as that? He don’t know the name--but we do, Charles Hunter of Millbank.” “Then he’s concerned in the murder?” “If you knew the things that aren’t to be seen as well as you do the things that you see, you’d beat us all,” Trafford answered. “If he was in the murder, he’d know where those papers are and wouldn’t have needed these men. His very desperation to get them shows he isn’t the murderer.” “Then Charles Hunter’s the man who’s afraid of those papers,” the other repeated, as if half dazed by the revelation. “One of ’em,” said Trafford. “I’ve known that much a long time.” “But if the men who are afraid of the papers aren’t the men who murdered him haven’t you knocked out the motive for the murder? That’s the thing that’s bothered all the time, and now that we’ve got hold of one, it’s a pity to lose it again.” “Beware of clues,” half laughed Trafford. “That’s the lesson you haven’t learned yet. I’ve said Hunter was one of the men who’s afraid of the papers. I haven’t said there weren’t others. Then it doesn’t follow that the only people who wanted to get the papers were those who were afraid of ’em. Given the papers, there’s a dozen things that might make ’em the motive of the murder besides being afraid of them.” After a silence that lasted some time, the other turned to Trafford and demanded: “Did you know Hunter was in this thing when you set me to hunting Canucks round Millbank?” “Certainly,” answered Trafford. “I’ve known it since a half-hour after the attack was made on me at the bridge. Why?” “Thunder! Hunter was one of the men of whom I thought it safe to make open enquiries about Canucks I was looking for.” “It’s never safe,” Trafford said, “to make enquiries of any one, unless you are willing that everybody should know, or anxious that one man should. In this case, ’twas just as well Hunter should know that we were on the track. He’s a man who makes his false slips when he’s the most anxious to escape.” CHAPTER XIII The Priest’s Story They had their dinner that day at Nic’khal’s, at the Forks, eating in the shed that later in the season becomes the “summer kitchen.” The meal was primitive in material and cooking, but the sauce was hunger. An elderly priest, weary-looking and sad, was their sole companion, and he watched them through the meal, with a look that Trafford read as expressive of a desire to have talk with him. So, after the eating was over, Trafford put himself in the way of the clergyman, who quickly availed himself of the chance: “You are from above?” he asked, and Trafford assented. “Did you pass the logging camp at the first rapids?”