He did not seem to be hostile, and Wyllard, who tossed his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, moved out a pace or two to meet him.
“You are Russian?” he questioned in the language the other had used, for French is freely spoken in parts of Canada.
The man laughed. “That afterwards,” he answered.
“It is said so. My name is Overweg—Albrecht Overweg. As to you, it appears you do not understand Russian.”
Wyllard drew a little nearer, and sat down upon a boulder. Now that the tension had slackened, his weariness had once more become almost insupportable, and he felt that he might need his strength and senses. He was bewildered by the encounter, for it was certainly astonishing in that desolate wilderness to fall in with a man who spoke three civilized languages and wore spectacles.
“No,” he replied, after a slight pause, “it is almost the first time I have heard Russian spoken.”
“Ah,” responded the other, “there is a certain significance in that admission, my friend. May I inquire where you have come from, and what you are doing here?”
Wyllard, who had no desire to give him any information concerning the quest for his lost comrades, pointed towards the east.
“That is where I come from. As to my business at the moment you will excuse me. It is perhaps not a rudeness to ask what is yours.”
The stranger laughed. “Caution, it seems, is necessary; and to the east, where you have pointed, there is only the sea. I will, however, tell you my business. It is science, and not”—he seemed to add this with a certain significance—“in any way connected with the administration of the country.”