It was an hour later, and the big nickeled lamps were lighted, when Arabella Kinnaird looked up at her companion as she sat in a lurching car while the great train swept furiously down the Fraser gorge.
“Now,” she exclaimed, “I remember! That packer has been puzzling me. His face was familiar. The same thing struck the major, as you heard him say.”
“Well?” inquired Ida, a little too indifferently.
“You overdo it. It would be wiser to admit that you are curious. The major said he’d seen him somewhere, and so he has, in a way. You remember his talking about the old North Country Hall he took for the shooting? Well, the owners had left that young man’s photograph among some other odds and ends in what they probably called the library.”
Ida had no doubt upon the matter, for she recalled the curious intentness of Weston’s face as he sat in the firelight listening to Kinnaird’s description of the house in question. Still, she was not prepared to display her interest.
“Well?” she inquired again.
Arabella Kinnaird made a sign of impatience.
“Can’t you see? They wouldn’t have had his photograph unless he had been a friend of the family or a relative. I wonder whether he told you his real name?”
“He didn’t.”