Foster opened the envelope, which was addressed to Telford at the mining town.  The letter was written guardedly, but after studying it with knitted brows he thought he understood its purport.

“How much were you to get for sending this?” he asked.

“Mr. Walters threw me three dollars.  I allow I’d have to give something to the brakesman.”

“After all, I don’t see why you shouldn’t deliver the thing,” Foster said thoughtfully.  “That means you can keep the money, but as the brakesman’s not allowed to carry letters, he’ll probably want a dollar.  Wait until I get a new envelope.”

The boy went off, looking relieved, and Foster returned to his chair at Walters’ door.  On the whole, he thought he would hear something of the gang on the morrow, and if his suspicions were correct, looked forward to an interesting meeting.  Telford had been asked for help, which he would try to send.  The west-bound freight had not passed yet, and if it came soon, should reach the mining town early in the morning.  Foster lighted his pipe, wrapped the blanket round his legs, and opened a book he had brought.

Next day two policemen arrived in a light wagon and took Walters away.  Lawrence was compelled to go with them, and although but little disturbance was made, Foster imagined all the occupants of the hotel knew about the matter.  He had ground for regretting this, and kept a close watch on the page whose duties were light just then, which enabled him to wander about the building and see what was going on.  He expected to hear something when the train from the coast arrived, but took care to be about when the express from Montreal was due.  He had a suspicion that Daly had gone up the line.

The west-bound train came first, and Foster, who had sent Pete to the station, sat in the veranda, where he could see anybody who entered the hotel.  The train stopped and went on again, but nobody came up the road, and after a time Pete returned.  Three passengers had got down, but they looked like bush ranchers and had taken the trail to a settlement some distance off.  Pete, however, did not know Daly, and Foster was not satisfied.  He thought the fellow might have bought a cheap skin coat such as the bush ranchers wore.  Going out, he walked through the wood that grew close up to the back of the building.  After all, Daly might try to find out something from one of the servants before coming to the front entrance.

The sun had sunk behind the range and the light was dim among the pines.  The air was keen and a bitter wind that came down the valley in gusts rustled the masses of heavy needles, while the roar of the river throbbed among the stately trunks.  This was in Foster’s favor, because he had to make his way between fallen branches and through thick undergrowth, and wanted to do so without being heard.  He was a good hunter and bushman, and did not think there was much risk of his being seen.