“Well, I had my reasons, George.  But I don’t mean to go into ’em.  All that’s dead and gone.  There was a pack of fellows then on my shoulders—­I was plumb tired of ’em.  I had to get rid of—­I did get rid of ’em—­and you, too.  I knew you were inquiring after me, and I didn’t want inquiries.  They didn’t suit me.  You may conclude what you like.  I tell you those times are dead and gone.  But it seemed to me that Robert Anderson was best put away for a bit.  So I took measures according.”

“You knew I was deceived.”

“Yes, I knew,” said the other composedly.  “Couldn’t be helped.”

“And where have you been since?”

“In Nevada, George—­Comstock—­silver-mining.  Rough lot, but you get a stroke of luck sometimes.  I’ve got a chance on now—­me and a friend of mine—­that’s first-rate.”

“What brought you back to Canada?”

“Well, it was your aunt, Mrs. Harriet Sykes.  Ever hear of her, George?”

Anderson shook his head.

“You must have heard of her when you were a little chap.  When I left Ayrshire in 1840 she was a lass of sixteen; never saw her since.  But she married a man well-to-do, and was left a widder with no children.  And when she died t’other day, she’d left me something in her will, and told the lawyers to advertise over here, in Canada and the States—­both.  And I happened on the advertisement in a Chicago paper.  Told yer to call on Smith & Dawkins, Winnipeg.  So that was how I came to see Winnipeg again.”

“When were you there?”

“Just when you was,” said the old man, with a triumphant look, which for the moment effaced the squalor of his aspect.  “I was coming out of Smith & Dawkins’s with the money in my pocket, when I saw you opposite, just going into a shop.  You could ha’ knocked me down easy, I warrant ye.  Didn’t expect to come on yer tracks as fast as all that.  But there you were, and when you came out and went down t’ street, I just followed you at a safe distance, and saw you go into the hotel.  Afterwards, I went into the Free Library to think a bit, and then I saw the piece in the paper about you and that Saskatchewan place; and I got hold of a young man in a saloon who found out all about you and those English swells you’ve been hanging round with; and that same night, when you boarded the train, I boarded it, too.  See?  Only I am not a swell like you.  And here we are.  See?”

The last speech was delivered with a mixture of bravado, cunning, and sinister triumph.  Anderson sat with his head in his hands, his eyes on the mud floor, listening.  When it was over he looked up.

“Why didn’t you come and speak to me at once?”

The other hesitated.

“Well, I wasn’t a beauty to look at.  Not much of a credit to you, am I?  Didn’t think you’d own me.  And I don’t like towns—­too many people about.  Thought I’d catch you somewhere on the quiet.  Heard you was going to the Rockies.  Thought I might as well go round by Seattle home.  See?”