THE BLACK FOX SKIN
Having exchanged the usual salutations, Evans remarked good-humouredly:—
"November’s out trailing the robber. Him and me's been talking about the black fox pelt. Joe's wasting his time all right."
"How's that?" I asked, rather nettled, for wasting his time was about the last accusation I should ever have brought against my comrade.
"Because I can tell him who the thief is."
"You know!" I exclaimed.
Evans nodded. "I can find out any time."
"How?"
"Care to see?" He rose and went to the door.
I followed. It was a clear bright morning, and the snow that had fallen on the previous day was not yet melted. We stepped out into it, but had not left the threshold when Evans touched my shoulder.
"Guess Joe missed it," he said, pointing with his finger.
I turned in the direction indicated, and saw that upon one of the nails which had been driven into the door of the cabin, doubtless for the
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