e nearly empty room, and a
shadowy smile haunted his eyes. "And if there was trouble? Could you
locate him in time?"

"We shouldn't need to. He'd be there."

The lumberman stirred, and persisted with curious interest.

"But he must have a place where you folks can get him? This coming and
going. It's fine--but--"

Bull stood up and stretched himself.

"Oh, he's got a home, all right. It's the forests."

Mr. Cantor threw up his hands and laughed.

"Who is he, anyway? A sort of Wandering Jew? A ghost? A spook? That sort
of thing beats me. He's got to be one of the two things. He's either a
crank--you say he ain't--or he's dodging daylight."

But Bull had had enough. Deep in his heart was a feeling that no man had
any right to pry into the life of Father Adam. Father Adam had changed
the whole course of his life. It was Father Adam who had made possible
everything he was to-day--even his association with Nancy McDonald. He
shook his head unsmilingly.

"Father Adam's one good man," he said. "And I wouldn't recommend anyone
to hand out anything to the contrary within hearing of the men of the
Quebec forests. Good-night."

He strode away. And Mr. Cantor followed him, slight and bediamonded in
his evening clothes. And somehow the dark eyes gazing on the broad back
of the man from Labrador had none of the twinkling shrewdness the other
had originally observed in them. They were quite cold and very hard. And
there was that in them which suggested the annoyance inspired by a long
evening of effort that had ended in complete failure.

The man's dark, foreign-looking features had lost every semblance of
their recent good-natured enthusiasm.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LONELY FIGURE AGAIN

The laden sled stood ready for the moment of starting on the day's long
run. Five train dogs, lean, powerful huskies, crouched down upon the
snow. They gave no sign beyond the alertness of their pose and the
watchfulness of their furtive eyes. Their haunches were tucked under
them. And their long, wolfish muzzles, so indicative of their parentage,
were pressed down between great, outstretched forepaws.

The man studied every detail of his outfit. He knew the chances, the
desperate nature of the long winter trail. He had no desire to increase
the hardship of it all by any act of carelessness.

Behind him lay the mockery of a camping ground. It was a minute,
isolated bluff of stunted, windswept trees, set in a white, wide
wildern