“If he doesn’t confess,” thought Dick, “and have this over with, I’ll go crazy.”
A voice, trembling but defiant, broke across the silence.
“Yes, I did do that. What was wrong about it? Tell me—what was wrong about it? I didn’t commit no crime— It wasn’t a very bad thing to do—you can’t make me believe that. Just sold a copy of something that was written in that old book.”
“Listen, dad, it wasn’t so terrible wrong. I didn’t touch anybody an’ I didn’t steal nothing. All I did was to sell what was in that book to a few men for just a few dollars.”
“To a few men!” gasped the corporal. “Who—beside Emery and MacGregor?”
“I sold one copy one day when Dewberry was here—before I gave him back the book. I made a second copy, but I didn’t sell it for months afterwards. Dad and I had a quarrel and I ran away. I played cards and I lost money—all I had. I tried to sell the copy. I showed it to a few men, but they laughed at me. Then one night, when I was at a road-house a queer looking chap, named Crane, gave me ten dollars for it.”
“Are you sure his name wasn’t Creel? Stop and think a moment.”
“Creel! Creel! That’s it.” Reynold looked at the policeman in surprise. “How did you know?”
“So you see, dad, it wasn’t anything so very terrible,” Reynold ran on. “I—”
“Can you repeat what you copied from the book?” Rand interrupted.
“No, not word for word. It was something about an old chest that Dewberry had at his home at Peace River Crossing—full of money; about a key that he carried around his neck.”
“Would you remember if I read it to you?”
Corporal Rand crossed the room, knelt down, and opened his saddle-pack. A moment later he returned, carrying Dewberry’s diary, resumed his seat, and began thumbing the pages. It was several minutes before he found the right place. Then he read:
“May 13th, 1915. That chest is an obsession. Even out here in the wilderness away from it, it seems to haunt me night and day. Sometimes I call myself a doddering old fool. To buy it was a waste of money, an act of folly. That were bad enough, but this thing I have been doing lately is madness itself. In a thousand years, if God gave me that long to live, I could never restore that chest to its original glory and splendor. I’m sure that I haven’t put into it one infinitesimal part of the wealth and treasure that he did. If he were living now, Ming would laugh my diamonds and rubies and emeralds to scorn. I’m afraid he’d spurn my gold too. Cheap stuff! Trash! Where I have thousands he had millions. Folly to pit the Crystal Lode against the resources of an empire. Yet here I am, walking about with the key around my neck, trying to emulate an emperor.”