Thomas Duncan was still at liberty, and our task was yet unfinished.  I have already, as briefly as I could, related the various events which had transpired since the robbery, and detailed the efforts which we had thus far made toward accomplishing the capture of the perpetrators of this crime.  Of Thomas Duncan, however, I had learned comparatively little, and of his movements still less; and yet, at times, I found myself indulging in feelings of sympathy for the young man, who had so recklessly and inconsiderately thrown away the best chances of his life.  Of a careless disposition and inclined to folly, I was convinced that until this time he had never stooped to commit a crime.  This was his first flagrant violation of the law, and when I thought of him a hunted fugitive, seeking to hide himself from the vigilant eyes of the officers of the law, and of the quiet, peaceful and happy home of his parents, I could not repress a feeling of regret and sorrow for the wayward youth in this, the hour of his humiliation and trial.  Far different from Eugene Pearson, who had no cares and no temptations to commit crimes, and who had practiced a scheme of vile deception and ingratitude for years, Thomas Duncan had been found in a moment of weakness and desperation, and under the influence of wily tempters, had yielded himself up to their blandishments, and had done that which had made him a felon.  As to Eugene Pearson, the trusted, honored and respected official of the bank, who had deliberately planned and assisted in this robbery of his best friends, I had no words of palliation for his offenses; but for “Tod” Duncan, the weak and tempted victim of designing men and adverse circumstances, I experienced a sense of sympathy which I could not easily shake off.

Where was he now?  Perhaps hiding in the forests of the far west, amid the barbaric scenes of savage life; perhaps giving himself up to a reckless life of dissipation, seeking in the delirium of intoxication a forgetfulness of the deed he had committed, and of the consequences which must befall him.  How many long, weary nights since he fled from Geneva, with his ill-gotten booty, had he, even in the midst of a bacchanalian revel, started suddenly, as if in fear of the officer he so much dreaded, and then with a boastful laugh drank deeper to drown the agonies that oppressed him?  Perhaps, on the other hand, the first step taken, the rest had come easy and without effort, and he had already become hardened and reckless.  Whatever might be the case, we were as yet uninformed, and operative John Manning arrived in Sioux City with no definite clew to the missing man.