fter his return, Thirlwell sat, smoking, by the stove. Now
and then a mass of snow rumbled down the iron roof near the spot where
the hot pipe went through, and the draughts had lost their former sting.
The air in the room felt different; it was not humid yet, but one no
longer noticed the harsh dryness that is caused by intense frost. The
long arctic winter was coming to an end.

By and by Scott, sitting opposite Thirlwell, said thoughtfully,
"Driscoll's outfit will have to hustle, if they mean to do much
prospecting and get back while the ice is good. I'll give them a month,
and if they're not out then, they'll have trouble."

Thirlwell made a sign of agreement. Rivers and lakes are numerous in the
North, and in winter one can travel smoothly on the ice. When the latter
rots and cracks, _voyageurs_ and prospectors wait until the melting snow
sweeps the grinding floes away and canoes can be launched. To push
through tangled bush and across soft muskegs costs heavy labor.

"They were taking up a big load and couldn't march fast," he said.

"I understand you don't know Stormont?"

"I know his character--and unless he's badly slandered that's enough! I
haven't met him, but I'm nearly sure it was a city man I saw in
Driscoll's camp."

"Stormont's indicated," Scott replied. "I reckon Driscoll went to him
because he needed capital; but he wouldn't put another fellow on the
track. If we take it for granted that he did go, the mystery about
Strange's letters is cleared up. It's characteristic that Stormont tried
to steal them before he made Miss Strange his offer."

"In a way, it's curious that he did make an offer!"

Scott smiled. "He didn't run much risk. It would be hard to frame an
agreement out of which Stormont couldn't wriggle; I've met the fellow,
and Brinsmead has grounds for knowing his methods. Anyhow, it's plain
that he thinks it worth while to spend some money in trying to find the
lode, and on such matters his judgment is said to be pretty good. Then I
imagine Black Steve knows more about Strange's prospecting trips than
you suspect."

"My notion is, that nobody knows much about the lode."

"Well," said Scott, "it looks like that. Strange is dead, and I don't
imagine he took Black Steve very far into his confidence; though he may
have given him a hint when he was drunk. But there's another man, whom
nobody seems to have thought of yet."

"Who's that?"

"The Hudson's Bay agent at the factory where St