"Then why did you give all that tea and sugar to that old squaw, Molly Canadian—and two barrels of potatoes to Frank Gorman?"
"How do you know that?" cried Rayton, astonished.
The captain helped himself to whisky. "I keep my eyes about me," he said complacently. "I know pretty much everything that goes on 'round this settlement."
"Then I wish you knew the secret of Jim Harley's queer behavior to-night—and how that card came to be marked," replied Rayton.
The old man laughed aloud—a thing that was rare with him. "That is asking too much," he said. "I'm not a wizard, Reginald. But I venture to say that, if I gave my mind to it, I'd have the mystery entirely solved before that Smart Alec of a Nash has so much as picked up the right scent."
"I quite believe you," returned Rayton. "Do you know, captain," he added, smiling frankly, "I wonder at your living in this place. You seem to be—if you'll pardon my saying it—of quite another world than these simple people."
"And what about you, Reginald?"
"Oh, I'm just an ordinary chap. Came out here to farm—and here I am. All this suits me to the tick—working in the fields, fishing, feeding cattle, and moose shooting. But you are not a farmer, and why you should have selected Samson's Mill Settlement to live in, after the life you must have lived, beats me. You have no relations here. I can't understand it, captain."
Old Wigmore got to his feet, his gray beard aquiver with anger. "Really, sir," he cried, "what business is it of yours where I choose to live? Damn it all!—really, I did not expect you, at least, of prying into my affairs. Where are my hat and coat? Thanks for your whisky—which might be better—and good night to you."
"Oh, I say! Don't go, captain!" cried the good-natured Rayton; but the old man had already stepped briskly from the room. In another moment, the door banged behind him.