sat down on a log to rest.

There were two courses open. Either he could return to Terrace City
and face the charge against him as best he could, or he could keep
going. It was only a few miles across country to Pipe Lake, where he
could catch the P.M. for Detroit.

His thoughts turned abruptly from the problem of flight, and plunged
into the problem of the missing coat. It was not conceivable that the
garment had been destroyed; therefore it was still in existence. If in
existence, somebody had it. Who? One by one, Hedin considered the
personnel of the theatre party, and one by one he eliminated them until
only Wentworth was left. Wentworth! If he could only prove it! He
remembered that someone had casually remarked that morning at breakfast
that Wentworth had gone North for old John McNabb. He had heard McNabb
mention some pulp-wood lands in the North. Gods Lake, wasn't it? Why,
Gods Lake post was old Dugald Murchison's post! Hedin remembered
Murchison well. It was only last year he had spent a week as the guest
of his old friend McNabb, and nearly every evening at dinner Hedin had
sat at meat with them, and listened in fascination to the talk of the
far outlands. He remembered the shrewd gray eyes of Murchison--eyes
that bespoke wisdom, and justice tempered with mercy.

He smote his leg with his mittened fist. He would go North, straight
to old Dugald Murchison, and he would tell him the whole story.
Murchison would help him, and if Wentworth were innocent, then he,
Hedin would return to Terrace City and give himself up. He would not
be a fugitive from justice, for justice owed him the chance to prove
his innocence.