"You!" almost screamed Ulmer Balasco.
"Yes, me. If you want to read the telegram, here it is."
The lumber dealer fairly snatched the slip from Owen's grasp, and devoured its contents. His face grew pale, and it was impossible for him to hold the sheet of paper still.
"So this is what you have been up to, eh?" he stammered. "Spies, just as I suspected."
"We are not spies. Mr. Wilbur has been our friend, and when he asked us to let him know how things were going here we merely wrote him the truth."
"You told me it was on account of a French-Canadian——"
"So it was," put in Dale. "Mr. Wilbur has telegraphed to Mr. Rice about that man, and the sheriff is to arrest him."
"And Mr. Rice is to assist me—in case I have any trouble here," put in Owen significantly.
"Do you imagine I am going to abide by what that telegram says. Why, it isn't worth the paper it's written on!" fumed Ulmer Balasco. "I am master here; Wilbur has no authority whatever."
"That is a matter of opinion."