“You saw him go?” Johnson said, maintaining his smile and keeping his tone level.

Dipping her head, the girl regarded Johnson from beneath her eyelashes. “He told me not to tell.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs De Witt.

“Well, you’ve done exactly the right thing, telling us, Libby,” Johnson said before either of the girl’s parents could respond. Though how far it added to their store of knowledge, he had no idea. Against hope, he asked, “Do you remember when he left? Was it a long time ago or was it not so very long? Can you recall?”

“She’s not going to know that, Colonel,” the pastor cut in, with a note of censure. “She’s only nine.”

The little girl frowned as if trying to concentrate. “It was near that big old tree we passed,” she said eventually, her head lifting. She looked towards her father.

A tree? Johnson thought desperately. In a forest of trees? Well, that’s damned helpful. That certainly narrows it down.

“Which tree was that, Libby?” the pastor enquired gently.

The girl’s face brightened. “You remember! You said it was just like the one behind our house. The one without the branches.”

Johnson turned, fixing the pastor with a penetrating look. “Branches? Do you know what she’s talking about, Reverend?”

De Witt was staring at his daughter. “You’re sure, Libby? That’s where you saw Matthew go to look for Tam?”

The little girl dipped her head vigorously.

“What tree, Reverend?” Johnson sensed the girl start and realized he’d posed the question more sharply than he’d intended. He turned quickly. “That’s splendid, Libby. You’ve been most helpful.” Patting her on the knee, he said, “Y’know, when we get to Montreal, I shall take you to meet my Mary. I’ve a feeling that you and she could become great friends. What do you say to that?”

After giving the suggestion deep consideration, the little girl gave another solemn nod.

“Excellent!” Johnson said. “It’s settled then.”

As the pastor’s wife stepped in to speak to the girl, Johnson pulled De Witt to one side. “What tree, Reverend?”

De Witt frowned. “There was a giant oak behind our cabin. It was struck during a lightning storm and I had to saw the branches back. I—”

“Not that bloody tree, man! The one on the damned trail!”

The pastor reddened. Recovering, he said, “It was similar, an old oak tree. It looked as though the branches had been cut away a long time ago, to clear the road.”

“How far back?”

The pastor thought about it. “Four, maybe five miles. I seem to recall there was some sort of mark carved into the bark.”

“Mark?” Johnson said, pulse quickening. “What kind of mark?”

“It might have been an H, though I could be mistaken.”

God love the Engineers!