“You seem convinced.”
“I am; I knew him well.”
Nasmyth was startled and he showed it, but afterward he looked thoughtful.
“I believe I understand,” he said.
For a minute or two there was silence which was broken only by the snapping of the branches on the fire and the hollow roar of the rapid. The latter had a curious, irritating effect on Nasmyth, who hitherto had scarcely noticed the insistent pulsatory clamor. At length Lisle spoke again, laying a strong restraint upon himself.
“Our mutual friend called me Lisle at the Empress Hotel. I don’t think he mentioned my first name, Vernon; and as that was the name of Gladwyne’s guide I kept it in the background. I was anxious to take you with me; I wanted an Englishman of some standing in the old country whose word would be believed. What was more, I wanted an honest man who would form an unbiased opinion. I didn’t know then that you were a friend of Gladwyne’s.”
Nasmyth made a slight gesture which suggested the acknowledgment of a compliment.
“I’ll try to be just—it’s sometimes hard.” His voice had a throb of pain in it as he went on: “I was the friend of George Gladwyne—the one who perished. I had a strong regard for him.”
Something in his expression hinted that this regard had not been shared by the Gladwyne who survived.
“When my father first came out to British Columbia, new to the bush ways,” Lisle resumed, “a neighbor, Vernon, was of great help to him—lent him teams, taught him how to chop, and what cattle to raise. He died before my father, and I was named for him; but he left a son, older than I, who grew up like him—I believe he was the finest chopper and trailer I have ever come across. He died, as you have heard, from exposure and exhaustion, a few days after he reached the Hudson Bay post—before he could clear himself.”