Anderson watched the speaker intently.  Presently he began to put questions—­close, technical questions.  His father’s eyes—­till then eager and greedy—­began to flicker.  Anderson perceived an unwelcome surprise—­annoyance—­

“You knew, of course, that I was a mining engineer?” he said at last, pulling up in his examination.

“Well, I heard of you that onst at Dawson City,” was the slow reply.  “I supposed you were nosin’ round like the rest.”

“Why, I didn’t go as a mere prospector!  I’d had my training at Montreal.”  And Anderson resumed his questions.

But McEwen presently took no pains to answer them.  He grew indeed less and less communicative.  The exact locality of the mine, the names of the partners, the precise machinery required—­Anderson, in the end, could get at neither the one nor the other.  And before many more minutes had passed he had convinced himself that he was wasting his time.  That there was some swindling plot in his father’s mind he was certain; he was probably the tool of some shrewder confederates, who had no doubt sent him to Montreal after his legacy, and would fleece him on his return.

“By the way, Aunt Sykes’s money, how much was it?” Anderson asked him suddenly.  “I suppose you could draw on that?”

McEwen could not be got to give a plain answer.  It wasn’t near enough, anyhow; not near.  The evasion seemed to Anderson purposeless; the mere shifting and doubling that comes of long years of dishonest living.  And again the question stabbed his consciousness—­were his children justified in casting him so inexorably adrift?

“Well, I’d better run down and have a look,” he said at last.  “If it’s a good thing I dare say I can find you the dollars.”

“Run down—­where?” asked McEwen sharply.

“To the mine, of course.  I might spare the time next week.”

“No need to trouble yourself.  My pardners wouldn’t thank me for betraying their secrets.”

“Well, you couldn’t expect me to provide the money without knowing a bit more about the property, could you?—­without a regular survey?” said Anderson, with a laugh.

“You trust me with three or four thousand dollars,” said McEwen doggedly—­“because I’m your father and I give you my word.  And if not, you can let it alone.  I don’t want any prying into my affairs.”

Anderson was silent a moment.

Then he raised his eyes.

“Are you sure it’s all square?” The tone had sharpened.

“Square?  Of course it is.  What are you aiming at?  You’ll believe any villainy of your old father, I suppose, just the same as you always used to.  I’ve not had your opportunities, George.  I’m not a fine gentleman—­on the trail with a parcel of English swells.  I’m a poor old broken-down miner, who wants to hole-up somewhere, and get comfortable for his old age; and if you had a heart in your body, you’d lend a helping hand.  When I saw you at Winnipeg”—­the tone became a trifle plaintive and slippery—­“I ses to myself, George used to be a nice chap, with a good heart.  If there’s anyone ought to help me it’s my own son.  And so I boarded that train.  But I’m a broken man, George, and you’ve used me hard.”