Bassett himself was helpless.  He stood by, watching the fire of his own igniting, conscious of the curious scrutiny of the few hotel loungers who remained, and expecting momentarily to hear of Dick’s capture.  It must come eventually, he felt sure.  As to how Dick had been identified, or by what means he had escaped, he was in complete ignorance; and an endeavor to learn by establishing the former entente cordiale between the room clerk and himself was met by a suspicious glance and what amounted to a snub.  He went back to his chair against the wall and sat there, waiting for the end.

It was an hour before the sheriff returned, and he came in scowling.

“I’ll see you now,” he said briefly, and led the way back to the hotel office behind the desk.  Bassett’s last hope died when he saw sitting there, pale but composed, the elderly maid.  The sheriff lost no time.

“Now I’ll tell you what we know about your connection with this case, Bassett,” he said.  “You engaged a car to take you both to the main line to-night.  You paid off Clark’s room as well as your own this afternoon.  When you found he was sick you canceled your going.  That’s true, isn’t it?”

“It is.  I’ve told you I knew him at home, but not as Clark.”

“I’ll let that go.  You intended to take the midnight on the main line, but you ordered a car instead of using the branch road.”

“Livingstone was sick.  I thought it would be easier.  That’s all.”  His voice sharpened.  “You can’t drag me into this, Sheriff.  In the first place I don’t believe it was Clark, or he wouldn’t have come here, of all places on the earth.  I didn’t even know he was here, until he came into my room this morning.”

“Why did he come into your room?”

“He had seen that I was registered.  He said he felt sick.  I took him back and put him to bed.  To-night I got a doctor.”

The sheriff felt in his pocket and produced a piece of paper.  Bassett’s morale was almost destroyed when he saw that it was Gregory’s letter to David.

“I’ll ask you to explain this.  It was on Clark’s bed.”

Bassett took it and read it slowly.  He was thinking hard.

“I see,” he said.  “Well, that explains why he came here.  He was too sick to talk when I saw him.  You see, this is not addressed to him, but to his uncle, David Livingstone.  David Livingstone is a brother of Henry Livingstone, who died some years ago at Dry River.  This refers to a personal matter connected with the Livingstone estate.”

The sheriff took the letter and reread it.  He was puzzled.

“You’re a good talker,” he acknowledged grudgingly.  He turned to the maid.

“All right, Hattie,” he said.  “We’ll have that story again.  But just a minute.”  He turned to the reporter.  “Mrs. Thorwald here hasn’t seen Lizzie Lazarus, the squaw.  Lizzie has been sitting in my office ever since noon.  Now, Hattie.”