“Miss Strange knows,” said Drummond with a curious smile.  “You want to remember that I told Stormont the creek runs south.  She does run south, for a piece, but she turns and goes down a valley to the east.”

“Then it’s hard to see your object for playing the crook with Stormont, though I don’t suppose he’d have done the square thing if you had put him on the right track,” Scott remarked.  “However, that’s not our business.  You’ll find room and some blankets in the bunk-house.”

Drummond left them and Thirlwell said, thoughtfully, “It’s plain that he deceived Stormont by telling him the creek flowed south.  This would make the fellow think the ore was on our side of the last height of land, but if the water goes east, it must run into the James Bay basin on the other slope.  That’s something of a clue, but I see a risk in keeping Drummond here.  Suppose he makes friends with Driscoll?”

“Driscoll doesn’t make friends,” Scott rejoined and added with a twinkle:  “Then as you don’t admit there is a lode, it’s not worth while to wonder whether the lad could tell Black Steve anything useful.”

“We’ll let that go,” Thirlwell replied, and when Scott strolled away read Agatha’s letter again with keen satisfaction.  It was a charming, frank letter, and he thrilled as he noted her trust in him.

Drummond went to work next morning and Thirlwell, allowing for some awkwardness at first, thought he would earn his pay, while a doubt he had felt about the prudence of engaging him was presently removed.  Going to the smith’s shop one afternoon, he heard angry voices and stopped to see what was going on.  The smithy, which stood at the edge of the clearing round the mine, was a rude log shack without a door.  It was generally rather dark, but just then a ray of sunshine struck in and the charcoal fire on the hearth glowed a dull red.  The smith leaned on his hammer, watching Driscoll and Drummond, who confronted each other close by.

Driscoll was heavy and muscular, Drummond wiry and thin, but as they stood, highly strung, Thirlwell noted the athletic symmetry of both figures.  Driscoll had, no doubt, acquired it by travel in the woods, and Drummond by inheritance from Indian forefathers.  The older man’s limbs and body had the fine proportions of a Greek statue, and since he did not move one could not see that he was lame.  Their faces, although different in modeling, were somehow alike, for both had a curious, quiet watchful look.  They disputed in low voices, but Thirlwell saw their mood was dangerous.  He knew that noisy fury seldom marks a struggle in the North, where hunting animals and men strike in silence.  There was something strangely like the stealthy alertness of the animals in their attitudes.

Waiting in the gloom among the pine-trunks, he gathered that the quarrel was about the sharpening of tools.  Drummond had brought some cutters from the boring machine, and Driscoll wanted his ax ground.