When he came out he was again swaddled in the buffalo
coat. Rolf brushed past him -- here was something hard and long
in the right pocket of the big coat.
The landlord, the guest, and the driver had a whispered
conference. Rolf went as near as he dared, but got only a
searching look. The driver spoke to another driver and Rolf heard
the words "Black Lake." Yes, that was what he suspected. Black
Lake was on the inland sleigh route to Alexandria Bay and
Sackett's Harbour.
The driver, a fresh young fellow, was evidently interested in the
landlord's daughter; the stranger was talking with the landlord.
As soon as they had parted, Rolf went to the latter and remarked
quietly: "The captain is in a hurry." The only reply was a cold
look and: "Guess that's his business." So it was the captain. The
driver's mitts were on the line back of the stove. Rolf shook
them so that they fell in a dark corner. The driver missed his
mitts, and glad of a chance went back in, leaving the officer
alone. "Captain Forsyth," whispered Rolf, "don't go till I have
talked with you. I'll meet you a mile down the road."
"Who are you and what do you want?" was the curt and hostile
reply, evidently admitting the identification correct however.
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