"I am working a small mica mine close by. You can come into my camp to rest and get warm if you wish to." He spoke to the agitated traveler in the low, haughty tone that usually won for him the immediate respect of those inferior in social position. But the traveler only answered in a more imperious tone.
"Who are you, sir? Is this Bear Mountain? I was told it was. This man," he cried, pointing to the driver, "engaged to bring me to a mountain called Bear and a house kept by a woman called Smith. We were delayed—horribly delayed—by one of the horses casting a shoe. I ask you, sir, what does this man mean by turning me out at a mica mine? What does he mean?"
"I should like to know," said Durgan. "You have evidently been misled."
The driver here left the open carriage door, and began busying himself about the harness.
Again suggesting that the traveler might take advantage of his fire if he chose, Durgan turned back to his camp.
Alden stood outside, unseen from the carriage in the black shadow of the hut. He had the baffled air of a hound who, thinking he has found a scent, loses it again. He shook his head; his eyes contracted in concentrated attention. "I've no idea who he is; but I think he is acting a part."
The stranger now proved himself a man of the world by descending from the carriage with some polite expressions of relief at obtaining rest from the intolerable road, and gratitude for Durgan's hospitality.
He was of middle height, and stooped as he walked. His traveling coat was of the richest, the muffling of the fur collar and the slouch of the warm felt hat seemed habitual to him. In spite of them he shivered in the mountain night.
He went close to the fire, unbuttoned his coat to let the warmth reach him, and took out a card-case.
"Perhaps you will be good enough to extract a card," said he, handing it to Durgan. "My fingers are numb."