“In two hours.”
“Who are the party?”
“Jeff Hyde, Gaspe Toujours, Late Carscallen, and Cloud-in-the-Sky.”
“Who leads them, Hume? Who leads?”
“With your permission, I do.”
“You? But, man, consider the danger and—your invention!”
“I have considered all. Here are three letters. If we do not come back in three months, you will please send this one, with the box in my room, to the address on the envelope. This is for a solicitor in Montreal, which you will also forward as soon as possible; and this last one is for yourself; but you will not open it until the three months have passed. Have I your permission to lead these men? They would not go without me.”
“I know that, I know that, Hume. I can’t say no. Go, and good luck go with you.”
Here the manly old factor turned away his head. He knew that Hume had done right. He knew the possible sacrifice this man was making of all his hopes, of his very life; and his sound Scotch heart appreciated the act to the full. But he did not know all. He did not know that Jaspar Hume was starting to search for the man who had robbed him of youth and hope and genius and home.
“Here is a letter that the wife has written to her husband on the chance of his getting it. You will take it with you, Hume. And the other she wrote to me—shall I keep it?” He held out his hand.