“That’s Hartley,” asserted Connorton, positively. “Where did he go from here?”
“North Bay.”
“Where’s that?”
“About two hundred and fifty miles due north.”
Connorton became suddenly perturbed, not to say excited. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed, “he’s heading for the wilderness!”
Connorton was sufficiently troubled now to forget temporarily his love of ease. He could imagine nothing that would take Hartley to that region except some crazy hunting or mining scheme, both of which had elements of danger. Wherefore they must follow quickly, no matter how unpleasant the outlook.
But Hartley was not at North Bay, and had not stopped there. That was easily settled, for it was not so large a place that a man of his personality could possibly escape observation.
“More uncertain than a flea!” grumbled Connorton. “Probably dropped off somewhere down the line.”
“Or went on up the line,” suggested Paulson. “Perhaps the ticket-man will know.”
The ticket-man did. They would have saved time if they had asked him in the first place instead of making their inquiries at the hotel.