When he reached the town the snow was wet and the lights were out, but the post office was open, and having telegraphed his new address, he went in to ask if there was any mail for him. A girl was busy behind a lettered brass wicket, but did not look up, and Foster saw the man in whom he was interested standing among some others farther along the counter. The fellow came towards him.
"Been for a walk?" he said. "You get up early."
"I'm used to that," Foster answered with a careless smile. "Anyhow, I want my mail, and you enjoy breakfast better if you've been out first."
"Sure thing," agreed the other. "But you want to put on rubber shoes when a Chinook wind strikes this town."
Then the girl clerk looked up and when Foster inquired for letters threw him two. His companion asked for his, giving the name of Telford, and she indicated the lettering on the wicket.
"Farther along, where you came from! Can't you read the alphabet?"
"I can, now I see it," said the other good-humoredly as he turned back.
On the whole, Foster was glad he had picked up the letters as the girl threw them down. It is customary in Western cities for people to call for their mail and girl clerks are sometimes curt, but she seemed to think it strange that the fellow had come to the wrong wicket. If he had had an object for doing so, he had learned Foster's name, but the latter did not think he had seen the postmarks or that one letter had an English stamp. Still, he had noted that Foster's boots were wet, which indicated that the latter had gone farther than the post office.
He went out before he opened the envelopes, and then glancing at the letters put them in his pocket with a thrill of satisfaction, meaning to read them carefully after breakfast. Entering the hotel, he hung up his coat and went to the dining-room. He was promptly served, and when he went out after finishing his meal, saw Telford, who had apparently just returned from the post office, standing in the passage, which was rather dark. It looked as if he had been hanging up his coat, but he stood near Foster's, and then moved on abruptly as another man came up.
Foster met them and saw that the last was the man whom he had half-suspected of watching Telford on the first evening. As he passed, he took the letters from his coat, and entering the rotunda sat down and lighted his pipe. It was possible that Telford had meant to search his pockets, but had been prevented by the appearance of the other, and Foster frowned. He was feeling the strain of the constant watchfulness and getting tired of intrigue. As a matter of fact, he hated that kind of thing, and it would be a keen relief when he could attend to his proper business and finish with the need for caution. In the meantime, he did not know if he had found a fresh clew or not. After all, he had not much ground for suspecting Telford.