"Stop right there, Pepe!" he shouted. "What were you doing in that room?"
Nobody answered and Jake turned to the man, who was rubbing his leg.
"What's the trouble, Payne?" he asked.
"He's lit out, but I reckon I'd have got him if you'd been more careful
how you pushed your chair around."
"Whom did you expect to get?"
"Well," said Payne, "it wasn't Pepe."
"Then why did you call him?"
"I wanted the fellow I was after to think I'd made a mistake."
Jake could understand this, though the rest was dark. Pepe was an Indian
boy who brought water and domestic stores to the shack, but would have no
excuse for entering it at night.
"I allow he meant to dope the coffee," Payne resumed.
This was alarming, and Jake abruptly glanced at the table. The intruder
must have been close to it and behind him when he heard the step, and
might have accomplished his purpose and stolen away had he not struck the
match.
"He hadn't time," he answered. "We had better see what he was doing in
the house."
Payne put away his pistol and they entered Dick's room. Nothing seemed to
have been touched, until Jake placed the lamp on a writing-table where
Dick sometimes worked at night. The drawers beneath it were locked, but
Payne indicated a greasy finger-print on the writing-pad.
"I guess that's a dago's mark. Mr. Brandon would wash his hands before he
began to write."
Jake agreed, and picking up the pad thought the top sheet had been
hurriedly removed, because a torn fragment projected from the leather
clip. The sheet left was covered with faint impressions, but it rather
looked as if these had been made by the ink running through than by
direct contact. Jake wrote a few words on a scrap of paper and pressing
it on the pad noted the difference.
"This is strange," he said. "I don't get the drift of it."
Payne looked at him with a dry smile. "If you'll come out and let me
talk, I'll try to put you wise."
Jake nodded and they went back to the veranda.