I rushed in-----"

"You were just a minute too late!"

Ralph groped for a matchbox on the mantel-shelf, struck a light, and
applied it to the wick of the lamp. When the room was again visible,
he told his friends what had happened.

"I don't know why he broke into this house; there's no money here,"
added Ralph, "unless-----" He stopped short with a gasp, and,
going over to a wall cupboard, opened one of the drawers. "Gone!"
he cried. "The money I got for those last pelts! It's gone, before
I had time to put it in the bank! The thief has taken it!"

"Who could it be?" asked Arthur, after a brief, sympathetic silence.

"I can't guess. Tim Meadows, the man who helped me with the plowing
last fall, was too honest to---no, it couldn't be Tim! Perhaps---
what's that you've got in your hand, Tom?"

With a start, Tom looked down. Clutched in his right hand was a
fragment of a man's coat collar and the shreds of a green and yellow
striped tie.

"It's a clew!" said he, with the air of a professional sleuth.




CHAPTER VII