ook at the edges,
it is an old cut."

"So it is!" exclaimed Bethune, as he and Lord Clendenning bent close
to examine it. "So it is. I wonder who--" Suddenly he ceased speaking,
and stood for a moment with puckered brows. "I wonder," he muttered.
"I wonder if he would have dared? Yes, I think he would. He knew of
Rod's strike, and he would stop at nothing to steal the secret."

"I don't believe Mr. Watts, nor any of the Wattses cut that pack,"
defended the girl.

"Neither do I. Watts has his faults, but dishonesty is not one of
them. No. The man who cut that pack, was the man who carried it
there----"

"Vil Holland!" exclaimed Lord Clendenning. "My word, d'ye think he'd
dare? Yes, Watts told us that he brought in the pack because Sinclair
was in a hurry. The bloody scamp! He should be jolly well trounced!
I'll do it myself if I see him, so help me Bob, I will!"

Bethune turned to the girl. "You have examined his effects. Was there
evidence of their having been tampered with?"

"I'm sure I don't know. If he left any papers or maps or things like
that in there it most certainly has been tampered with, for they are
not there now."

The man smiled. "I think we are safe in assuming that there were no
maps or papers of value in the outfit. Your father was far too shrewd
to have left anything of the sort to the tender mercies of Vil
Holland. By cutting the pack Vil merely gave evidence of his
unscrupulous methods without in any way profiting by it. And, as for
the map and photographs in your possession, I should advise you to
find some good hiding place for them and not trust to carrying them
about upon your person." Swiftly Patty glanced at the speaker. That
last injunction, somehow, did not ring quite true. But he had turned
to the door, and a moment later when he faced her to bid her adieu,
the boyish smile was again curling his lips, and he mounted and rode
away.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE CABIN

For a long time after the departure of her visitors, Patty Sinclair
sat thinking. Was it true, all this man had told her? She remembered
vividly the beautiful tribute he had paid her father and the emotion
that had gripped him as he finished. Surely his words rang true. They
were true, or else the man was a consummate actor as well as an
unscrupulous knave. She recalled the boyish smile, the story of Lord
Clendenning's terrible journey, and the impatience with which he had
silenced the Englishman's self-criticism.