ons on parting.

"I don't think that can do much harm," said Harding, looking him in the
face.

"Your suspicions die hard," Clarke rejoined with a mocking laugh.

"That's so," said Harding coolly. "As soon as you leave this camp I
lose my hold on you. However, I've given you the Indian as guide, and
he'll see you safe to about a day's march from your friends' village,
and I've put up food enough for the journey. Considering everything,
that's all the fee I need offer you."

"There wouldn't be much use in urging my claim," Clarke acquiesced.

"Then what about Benson? I noticed you didn't seem particularly
anxious to renew your acquaintance. Are you willing to leave him with
us?"

Clarke smiled in an ironical manner. "Why do you ask, when you mean to
keep him? So far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to the man; I make
you a present of him. Have you had enough of this trip yet, or are you
going on?"

"We're going ahead; you can do what you like about it. And now, while
I admire the way you pulled my partner through, there's not much more
to say. I wish you a safe journey and good-morning."

He waved his hand and turned back towards the fire, while Clarke,
following the Indian, moved forward across the muskeg. A week later
they broke camp and, finding a somewhat better path along the hillside,
went on by easy stages towards the north.

CHAPTER XV

MRS. CHUDLEIGH FINDS A CLUE

On a dark November morning when a blustering wind drove the rain
against the windows Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favourite
gun in the room he called his study at Hazlehurst in Shropshire. The
shelves on the handsome panelled walls contained a few works on
agriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two racks
were filled with guns and fishing rods and the table Foster was seated
at had a vice clamped to its edge. He had once had a commodious
gunroom, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife, who thought
she could make a better use of it, since Hazlehurst was small and she
had numerous guests, but the study was his private retreat. A hacksaw,
a few files, a wire brush, and a bottle of Rangoon oil were spread out
in front of him, the latter standing, for the sake of cleanliness, on
the cover of the _Field_.

Foster was a red-faced country gentleman who found his greatest
interest in outdoor sports and was characterized by some native
shrewdness and a genial but rather abrupt mann