is hand with the
case lying open within it.

It contained a miniature--of a young woman in the midst of a group of
children.

"Do you remember that photograph that was done of them--in a tent--when
you took us all into Winnipeg for the first agricultural show?" he said
hoarsely. "I had a copy--that wasn't burnt. At Montreal, there was a
French artist one year, that did these things. I got him to do this."

McEwen stared at the miniature--the sweet-faced Scotch woman, the bunch
of children. Then with a brusque movement he turned his face to the
wall, and closed his eyes.

Anderson's lips opened once or twice as though to speak. Some imperious
emotion seemed to be trying to force its way. But he could not find
words; and at last he returned the miniature to his pocket, walked
quietly to the door, and went out of the room.

The sound of the closing door brought immense relief to McEwen. He
turned again in bed, and relit his pipe, shaking off the impression left
by the miniature as quickly as possible. What business had George to
upset him like that? He was down enough on his luck as it was.

He smoked away, gloomily thinking over the conversation. It didn't look
like getting any money out of this close-fisted Puritanical son of his.
Survey indeed! McEwen found himself shaken by a kind of internal
convulsion as he thought of the revelations that would come out. George
was a fool.

In his feverish reverie, many lines of thought crossed and danced in
his brain; and every now and then he was tormented by the craving for
alcohol. The Salvation Army proposal half amused, half infuriated him.
He knew all about their colonies. Trust him! Your own master for
seventeen years--mixed up in a lot of jobs it wouldn't do to go blabbing
to the Mounted Police--and then to finish up with those hymn-singing
fellows!--George was most certainly a fool! Yet dollars ought to be
screwed out of him--somehow.

Presently, to get rid of some unpleasant reflections, the old man
stretched out his hand for a copy of the _Vancouver Sentinel_ that was
lying on the bed, and began to read it idly. As he did so, a paragraph
drew his attention. He gripped the paper, and, springing up in bed, read
it twice, peering into it, his features quivering with eagerness. The
passage described the "hold up" of a Northern Pacific train, at a point
between Seattle and the Canadian border. By the help of masks, and a few
sticks of dynamite, the thing had been ver