CHAPTER XI

THE CLUE

The room Curlie Carson occupied while he stayed at the Prince George at Edmonton was on the second floor. It was reached by a very narrow elevator. There were probably stairways leading up. Curlie had never taken the trouble to look into that.

On this particular night, after he had tried in vain to study out the mysterious message, he retired early. He fell asleep the moment his head struck his pillow.

Since it was one of those silent nights of intense cold, he left his window open only a crack.

Late in the night he awoke with a feeling that a sudden draft of air had blown across his face.

“Wind’s coming up.” He shuddered with cold as he crept from his bed with the intention of shutting the window. Still not fully awake, he found himself bewildered by the facts that presented themselves to his mind. The wind had not risen. There was no draft. Yet the room was icy cold.

“As if the window had been wide open,” he thought.

Throwing up the shade, he looked out. At the back of the hotel was a narrow court and an alley. Down that alley a man was walking. He was tall and seemed rather gaunt.

“Probably some watchman been in for coffee,” he told himself.

Just then the man turned his head. He looked back and up. Then it seemed to the boy that he resisted with difficulty an impulse to bolt down the alley.

“Been into something,” Curlie decided. “None of my business, though.”

Having drawn the shade once more, he turned about and would have been under the covers in another ten seconds had not his bare foot come into contact with something soft and furry.

A surprised downward glance revealed a large mitten lying close to the window.

“That,” he whispered excitedly, “is not my mitten. No one’s been here but Jerry. It’s not his either. How—”

He broke off. Fully awake now, he was beginning to put facts together. He had awakened with a sense of cold. The room was frigid; yet the window was open only a crack. No gale was blowing. And now here was a mitten belonging to no one he knew. And it lay by the window.

“Some one has been in this room,” he told himself. “He lost his mitten. I’ve been robbed!” A thrill shot up his spine. “But in Edmonton of all places! The police are speedy and successful in their work. If I’ve been robbed I’ll—”

Once more he broke off. He had not been robbed; at least his most valuable possessions, his purse and his watch, had not been taken.

“The mystery deepens.” He searched his mind for some motive and found it at once.

“The paper, the copy of that message taken from the pigeon!” he exclaimed breathlessly.

He thrust nervous fingers into his inner coat pocket.

“Right at last. It _is_ gone!

“And now,” he thought, sitting down upon his bed, “what’s next?

“I might call the office and tell them what has happened. They would call the police. There would be an investigation. The police would ask questions. I had been robbed? What of? A paper? What paper? A message? What message? How did you come by it? How indeed? And how much right had I to copy a message taken from a carrier pigeon?”

To this last question he could form no adequate answer.

At once his mind was in a whirl. He was from the United States. Having read all his life of the efficiency of the Mounted Police (and to a boy all Canadian officers are “Mounties”), he held those officers in great awe.

“I’ll not notify the office.” He crept back into bed. “I’ll handle this affair myself.”

Holding the mitten up before him, he examined it closely. It was a large mitten made of long-haired fur. The fur was on the outside. It was gray. First impressions made him believe it was wolf’s fur. A more careful examination caused him to doubt it. “Some foreign fur, perhaps,” he concluded.

“This mitten,” he told himself, “is a clue. Find the other mitten in some one’s pocket. That’s the man.

“This mitten,” he began enlarging on the idea, “this mitten is from Siberia. The man is a Russian. For some reason, not known to us, he and his friends of the flying ‘Gray Streak’ have entered this land by crossing Bering Straits and Alaska. They have treasure. They are negotiating some secret treaty. They—there’s no knowing their mission. But this is the man to find.

“All of which,” he told himself soberly a moment later, “is probably entirely wrong. But who flies the ‘Gray Streak’? Who sent that message? Who stole my copy? These are questions I mean to answer if I can.”

At that he fell asleep.

Next morning, somewhat to his surprise, he found the gray mitten still lying by his bed. And the mysterious message was still missing.