Kalitan answered by no word, but thrust his hand inside his hunting-shirt and brought forth an envelope, which he gave into the eager hands reaching for it.
Stuart gave it one quick glance, turning it in his hand to examine both sides, and then dropped it in his pocket and sat down by the window. Rachel could see it was a thick, well-filled envelope, and that the shape was the same used by Stuart himself, very large and perfectly square—a style difficult to duplicate in the Kootenai hills.
"You can go now, if you choose, Kalitan," she said, fearing his ease would induce him to stay all night, and filled with a late alarm at the idea of Tillie getting her eyes on the peaceful "hostile" and her gorgeous cushions; and without any further notice of Stuart, Kalitan took his leave.
When Rachel re-entered the room, a moment later, a letter was crisping into black curls in the fire-place, and the man sat watching it moodily.
All that evening there was scarcely question or answer to be had from Stuart. He sat by the fire, with Miss Margaret in his arms—her usual place of an evening; and through the story-telling and jollity he sat silent, looking, Jim said, as if he was "workin' hard at thinkin'."
"To-morrow night you must tell us a story," said Miss Fred, turning to him. "You have escaped now for—oh, ever so many nights."
"I am afraid my stock is about exhausted."
"Out of the question! The flimsiest of excuses," she decided. "Just imagine a new one, and tell it us instead of writing it; or tell us the one you are writing at now."
"Well, we will see when to-morrow comes;" and with that vague proposal Miss Fred had to be content.
When the morrow came Stuart looked as if there had been no night for him—at least no sleep; and Rachel, or even MacDougall himself, would not think of calling him Prince Charlie, as of old.