There is not much domestic life in the new Western towns, whose inhabitants, for the most part, live at hotels, and the rotundas of the latter are used as a lounge by anybody who prefers them to the street.  In consequence, Foster could not tell who were guests and who were not.  By and by he filled his pipe, and a man who was lighting his held out the match, which Foster took with a word of thanks.  It might have been a trifling politeness, but he thought the other had waited until he was ready.

“You’re a stranger,” the man remarked.

“Yes,” said Foster, “I’ve just come in.”

“Looking for business?”

Foster quietly studied the man.  He was neatly dressed and looked keen and alert.  It was possible that he was a storekeeper, or a real estate agent, which is a common occupation in a Western town.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t often let a chance of a trade go past, but when you’re in a strange place, the trouble is to tell if you’ve got a snap or not.”

“Sure thing,” agreed the other.  “What’s your line?”

“Dressed lumber.”

“Then I can’t do much for you, but there’s quite a lot of new construction planned and the boys will get busy as soon as the frost breaks,” said the man.

He went on to talk about the trade of the town and province, and on the whole Foster was glad he had been in British Columbia before and knew something about the country.  It was better to be cautious and he did not want to show he came from the east.

By and by another man crossed the floor and picked up a newspaper that lay near.  As he did so, he gave Foster a careless glance, and then went back to the seat he had left.  This was at some distance from the heaters and near the entrance, to which people kept passing, but it commanded the spot that Foster and his companion occupied.  Foster, however, could not detect him watching them, and soon afterwards the other man went out.

Nothing happened next day, but Foster stopped and in the evening called for Pete, whom he had sent to a different hotel, and strolled down the snowy street.  It was very cold and few people were about.  A half-moon hung above the summit of the range, and the climbing pines cut in ragged black masses against the snow.  After crossing a bridge on the outskirts of the town they stopped and looked about.

A few half-finished houses stood among blackened stumps in a cleared belt, where there were rubbish heaps and willows were springing up, but a little farther on the forest rose in a shadowy wall.  It was quiet except for the roar of the river, and Foster shivered as he filled his pipe.

“It’s a nipping wind.  I’d better go down the bank a bit before I try to get a light,” he said.

He pushed through the willows growing beside the creek, but dropped his matchbox, and Pete came to help him in the search.  They found it, but before he could strike a match a man stopped at the end of the bridge and looked back up the street.  Foster, imagining he was the fellow who had spoken to him at the hotel, touched Pete, and they stood very still.