Chapter IX: The Sign of the Four

We looked all about before returning to the lodge and entered all the completed cabins, but no sign was there of anything amiss. We thought that one tree sheltered a lurking presence, and I saw Tom’s hand reach around to his hip pocket as we approached it. But it was only the shadow of a wind-blown branch that we had seen, and it dissolved as we drew nearer. We even went down to the lake, but there was nothing unusual there.

“I think that Weir Lake is a good name for it,” I said as we went back. “It’s so black and still.”

“Oh, that isn’t the reason for the name,” Tom said. “The old gent named it; it’s named after his wife; her maiden name was Weir. It didn’t have any name when he blew in here. Right about where we were standing is where Mr. Weston stood when he aimed and shot. Then he came up to the lodge and looked in the room you’re going to have, to see if young McClintick was there. Must have been an awful suspense to him, just that little while before he could muster up courage to take a peek and be sure of the truth.”

I just shook my head.

“Guess it was only a reflection of the fire you saw,” he said. “But it looked kind of funny, didn’t it? Moved sideways instead of jumping up and down. I don’t suppose any bandits would push in here. It’s just as well to be careful.”

We found Brent sitting in the middle of one of the long sides of the table; he looked ridiculously like a business man attending to his correspondence. He had lighted another lantern and with his spectacles half-way down his nose was studiously scrutinizing one of the many sheets of paper he had gathered from the floor.

“Did you find him?” he asked casually, never looking up.

“Guess it wasn’t anything,” I said. “What have you got there?”

“Targets,” he answered. “They’re very interesting.”

I saw then that the sheets of paper were of uniform size, about a foot square. Printed on each was a series of graduated circles with the bull’s-eye, so called, in the center. They were the regular practise targets familiar to all. I later found in the cupboard a board like a drawing board containing a screw eye by which to hang it on a tree. These targets had evidently been fastened to the board by thumb tacks.

“You say it was a year ago last fall they were here?” Brent asked, somewhat preoccupied. “And that was the finale, huh? One of these is dated November two, three of them are dated November three. They all seem to be dated, and when there were several used in a day, they’re numbered one, two, three. Here’s five of them that were used in one day. When was what’s-his-name killed, anyway? The young fellow, I mean.”

“Oh, how should I know that?” laughed Tom.

“In November, huh?” Brent said, soberly sorting over the old targets. He seemed to put Tom and me in the position of waiting clerks. He amused me, as he always did, he was so slow and businesslike.

“The hunting season, that’s all _I_ know,” said Tom.

“That would be November. Let’s see, here’s one--here’s two--wait a second, here’s another for November thirteen. Those are the last. Maybe November thirteen was the unlucky day, huh?”

“Very likely,” I said. “And what of it?”

“He’s found something to beat crossword puzzles,” Tom laughed. “Come on, what do you say we turn in?”

“What I’d like to know,” Brent said calmly preoccupied, “is who the other chap was. I’ve only heard of three. There were four here in camp at the end. There was the old geezer,” (Brent always spoke of people with nonchalant disrespect), “and the young one, and Mr.--what d’you say his name was--Weston? Well, there were four here practising rifle shooting. You can see for yourselves.” He held up one of the targets as Tom and I leaned over the table, our interest suddenly caught. “Four shots,” said Brent, pointing a lanky finger at one after another of the bullet holes. “Here’s another--_four holes_. Here’s another--_four holes_. Every blooming one of them has _four holes_. Seems as if they might have been keeping a kind of score. Hmph,” he drawled. “What do you make of it? Each one took a crack, then they’d take another target. There’s not a single one with three holes, or a single one with five holes. Is there anything about a gun, or is there anything about a man, that would make him shoot just four times? Do they have such things as four-shooters? Were there any guns left around here?”

“Sure, there are a dozen or more,” Tom said. “They left everything. Brent, old boy, you’ve got me guessing. No, I never heard of a four-shooter, as you call it.”

“Well then, there were four people here,” Brent said. “I don’t know if that’s the usual way to practise or not----”

“_It is_,” interrupted Tom. “Boy, _oh boy_, you’ve got me guessing! How the dickens did you ever stumble on _that_ discovery?”

“When I was a boy scout,” said Brent, “I learned that I must never allow papers to be littered about. So I picked these up while you were chasing shadows. Well, I suppose there was no harm in four people being here----”

“Oh no, I heard there were only three,” snapped Tom. “That doesn’t go at all; I heard there were only three. Of course, this doesn’t really, definitely _prove_ anything--these targets--but it’s gol blamed funny! It _looks_ as if there were four people here that November, doesn’t it?... What do _you_ say?” he added, addressing me. He seemed to be quite aroused.

“Does it make any difference how many were here?” I asked.

“No, but a mystery is rather nice,” drawled Brent.

“I don’t understand it at all--I don’t,” Tom said. “You ask anybody in Harkness, or up at Keeseville, how many were here and they’ll tell you three. That’s what the surveyors told me. That’s what Hick Collison, the game warden, told me. That’s what Mr. Temple understood from Mr. McClintick and his broker--that there were only just the three men here, for a little hunt. Why I’ve heard it a hundred times!”

“Well, I don’t suppose these targets really prove anything,” I said. “We might have known that Brent would find something to engage his attention up here. Now he can play Young Sleuth, the boy detective, while the rest of us are working.”

But Tom would not accept this view, and he refused to take a humorous squint at what seemed to me a matter of no importance.

“I can’t understand it at all,” he said, as he fell to looking at the targets again. “It’s got me.”

“I have a suggestion,” said Brent.

“Yes, what is it?” Tom snapped.

“Let’s retire for the night.”

“Second the motion,” I laughed.