there.  So Martin does not quit.  He—­just goes.  Then who sets this Bull Sternford in the mill?  Why?  He says, ’This man can do the things I need.’  Well?  Say quick to your man, ’Do not leave this camp of Skandinavia.’  Martin is there, or near by.  He must know this Father Adam, too.  He must be in touch with him.  Maybe he watches the Skandinavia work.  Maybe he plays his game so.  Maybe he goes from Sachigo for that reason.  Yes?”

The financier’s undisguised contempt left the agent apparently undisturbed.

“That’s the simple horse sense of it,” Idepski retorted promptly.  “I get all that.  But you’re wrong when you say, Martin’s playing any other game than lying low because of one hell of a scare.  I know him.  You think you know him because you can’t get away from judging a man from your end.  However, that don’t matter a shuck.  I’ve told that man of mine to stop around.  Don’t worry.  I told him that right away.  I told him to watch this missionary.”  He shook his head.  “Nothing doing.  The missionary has quit.  As I said, I’m right back from Sachigo.  I didn’t come back just to hand you this stuff.  I’m on my way up to this camp of yours.  We’ve been hunting this guy eight years—­blind.  Now there’s a streak of daylight.  I’m going for that streak myself.  Anyway, it’s liable to be pleasanter work than lumbering in the booms at Sachigo, and wondering when that feller Bat Harker, was going to locate me through a lumber-jack’s outfit.  And while I’m up there I mean to learn all I can of this Father Adam.  I don’t look for much that way.  He’s just a missioner that every feller in the forest’s got a good word for, and anyway, it don’t seem to me the feller who jumped in on you, and touched your bank roll is the sort to pass his time handlin’ out tracts to the bums of the forest.  I came in on my way to pass you these things.  I go north again to-night.  I’ll be away quite a while, and, shut off up there, you’ll not be likely to get word easy.  But you’ll hear things when I’ve got anything to hand you.”

A sardonic light crept into Hellbeam’s eyes as he listened to the final assurance.

“So,” he ejaculated with a nod.

The agent rose to go.

“Meanwhile,” he said, leaning over the desk, “it might be well for you to get a grip on the fact that Sachigo’s going right on.  It’s the greatest groundwood proposition in the world.  I know enough of Harker to realise his capacity to make it do just what he needs.  And as for that other—­this Sternford kid—­why, I gather he’s a pretty live wire that’s set there for a reason.  The slogan up there’s much what it was, only the words are changed.”

Hellbeam sucked his cigar and removed it from his lips.

“Changed?  How?” he demanded, without suspicion.

“It was ‘Canadian trade for the Canadians,’” Idepski said, his dark eyes snapping maliciously.  “It’s more personal since the fighting kid came along.  It reminds me of the German slogans of the war.  It’s ’To hell with the Swedes, we’ll drive ’em into the sea.’”