be mistaken! He couldn't be here--he was going out West. I was expecting
a letter from him any day, to say he'd started."

"It's here. At least, I mean there's _a_ letter from him, that I got in
Caraquet, only it's for Mr. Wilbraham. And I wasn't mistaken, Macartney.
I wish I were!"

Macartney could not speak. I was surprised; I had not suspected him of
much of a heart. I pulled out the letter, and Dudley opened it.

"Down and out--the poor old devil," said he slowly, staring at it, "and
came back. Well, poor Thompson!" He read the thing again and handed it
to Macartney. But Macartney only gave one silent, comprehensive stare at
it, in the set-eyed way that was the only thing I had never liked about
him, and pushed the letter across the table to me.

It was dated and postmarked Montreal. There was no street address, which
was not like Thompson. But its precise phrases, which _were_ like him,
sounded down and out all right.

"DEAR MR. WILBRAHAM: I write to inquire if you will take me
back at La Chance. There is no work here, or anywhere, and
the British Columbia copper mine, where I intended to go,
has shut down. I have nothing else in view, and I am
stranded. If by to-morrow I cannot obtain work here I see
nothing between me and starvation but to return to La
Chance. I trust you can see your way to taking me back, in
no matter how subordinate a position, at least till I can
hear of something else. If I am obliged to chance coming to
you I will take the shortest route, avoiding Caraquet, and
coming by Lac Tremblant.

"Yours truly,

"WILLIAM D. THOMPSON."

"That's funny," I let out involuntarily. And Dudley snapped at me that
it wasn't; it was ghastly.

"I don't mean the letter," I said absently. "It's that about Lac
Tremblant. Thompson was scared blue of that lake; he used to beg me not
to go out on it. And by gad, Dudley, I don't see how he could have come
that way! He couldn't paddle a canoe!"

"What?" Macartney started, staring at me. "You're right: he couldn't,"
he said slowly. "That does make it queer--except that we don't know he
meant to paddle up the lake. He might have intended to walk here along
its shore, and strayed or slipped in or something, in the dark. But what
troubles me is--can't you see he'd gone crazy? This letter"--he put a
finger on it, eloquently--"isn't sane, from a self-contained man like
Thompson! He must have been