“Batley!” he cried. “What in the name of wonder has brought you here!”
Batley moving forward into the moonlight, regarded him with a mocking smile.
“Nothing very remarkable; I’d several motives. For one thing, I felt I’d like the trip—had a stroke of luck not long ago which justified the expense. British Columbia’s nowadays almost as accessible as parts of Norway, where I’ve generally gone to, and I understand it’s wilder.”
“But how is it I haven’t seen you on the train?” Gladwyne asked, in no way reassured by the man’s careless explanation.
“I only got on at the last junction.” Batley’s tone was significant as he proceeded. “I was too late for your Allan boat; when I inquired about you in London I found that you had gone; but I caught the next New York Cunarder and came on by Buffalo. I suppose you stopped a day or two in Montreal, which explains how I’ve overtaken you.”
“We were held up by ice off Newfoundland.”
“Well,” suggested Batley, “suppose we go into the smoking end of the car. I dare say you’d like a talk and it’s rather noisy here. Besides, the cinders are a little too plentiful.”
They went in and Batley, lounging in a seat, lighted a cigar and waited with an amused expression for the other to begin. Gladwyne was intensely uneasy. It had been a vast relief to be free from his companion, and the last thing he desired was that Batley, who was a remarkably keen-witted man, should go over the track of George’s expedition in company with Lisle.
“Now,” he said, “I’d be glad if you would tell me exactly why you followed me. The reason you gave didn’t seem sufficient.”
“Then my other object ought to be clear. You’re carrying a good deal of my money; I felt it would be wiser to keep an eye on you. As I said, I’d had a stroke of luck that enabled me to get away.”