United States or Botswana ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
It was an anomaly that gold should be produced in this region. No vein of gold-bearing rock had been found, except the one on Polter's property. Alan had seen a newspaper account of the strangeness of it; and on a hunch had come to Quebec, being intrigued by the description of the mine owner. He had seen Frank Rascor on the Dufferin Terrace, and recognized him as Polter.
"Can you land us, Alan?" "Yes, surely. At the Municipal Field just beyond the Citadel. We can get to the Hotel in five minutes." It was a flight of only half an hour. During it, Alan told me about Polter. The hunchback, known now as Frank Rascor, owned a mine in the Laurentians, some thirty miles from Quebec City a fabulously productive mine of gold.
I'll do the talking. When he opens the gate, let me handle him. You if there are two of them you take the other." We emerged from the darkness, into the glow of light by the gate. I had the horrible feeling that a shot would greet us. A challenge came, at first in French and then in English. "Stop! What do you want?" "To see Mr. Rascor."
I haf a smelter and my gold quartz I make into ingots, refined to the standard purity. So simple, and I am a rich man. "But gold does not bring happiness, my friend Kent." He chuckled ironically at his use of the platitude. "There iss more in life than the ownership of gold. You ask my plans. I haf Babs, now. I am gifing up the Earth world. The mysterious man they know as Frank Rascor will vanish.
"But I'm telling you we saw Polter this morning. He lives here not thirty miles from Quebec. We saw him on the Terrace after breakfast. Recognized him immediately of course." "Did he see you?" "I don't know. He was lost in the crowd in a minute. But I asked a young French fellow if he knew him. He did know him, as Frank Rascor. That must be the name he wears now.
We crossed, turned and went back in an arc following Polter's curved outer wall. We had a good view of it. A weird enough looking place, here on its lonely hilltop. No wonder the wealthy "Frank Rascor" had attained local prominence! The whole property was irregularly circular, perhaps a mile in diameter covering the almost flat dome of the hilltop.
We were up to the bars now, shapeless hooded bundles of snow and frost. A man stood in the doorway of a lighted little cubby behind the bars. A black muzzle in his hand was leveled at us. "He sees no one. Who are you?" Alan was pressing at me from behind. I shoved him back, and took a step forward. I touched the bars. "My name is Fred Davis. Newspaperman from Montreal I must see Mr. Rascor."
Word Of The Day