eaten breakfast I headed straight for Lessard's private quarters. I
expected he would object to talking business out of business hours, but
I didn't care; I wanted to know what he was going to do, before I
started on that three-day trip. Fortunately Lessard was an early bird,
like myself. I met him striding toward the building that seemed to be a
clearing house for the official contingent.

"Good-morning, major," I said, mustering up a semblance of heartiness
that was far from being the genuine article--I didn't like the man and
it galled me to ask anything of him. "I want to ask you something before
I leave. Have you talked this affair over with Miss Rowan?"

"Yes. Why?" He was maddeningly curt, but I pocketed my feelings and
persisted.

"Then you must know beyond a doubt that there was some truth in
Rutter's story," I declared. "Hank Rowan was my friend. I'd go out of my
way any time to help his daughter. Will you send four or five of your
men with me to the Writing-Stone to look for that stuff?" I asked him
point-blank.

He looked me up and down curiously, and did not answer for a minute.
"How do you know where to look?" he suddenly demanded. "Writing-Stone
ridge is ten miles long. What chance would you have of finding anything
in a territory of that extent?" His cold eyes rested on me in a
disagreeable way. "I thought Rutter died before giving you the exact
location."

As a matter of fact, MacRae, in detailing the lurid happenings of that
night, did not repeat the words Rutter had gasped out with his last