“We’ll sound him first,” said Philip, starting off.

At MacDougall’s knock there was a moment’s silence inside, then heavy footsteps, and the door was flung open.  Sandy entered, followed by Philip.  Thorpe stepped back.  He was of medium height, yet so athletically built that he gave the impression of being two inches taller than he actually was.  He was smooth-shaven, and his hair and eyes were black.  His whole appearance was that of a person infinitely superior to what Philip had expected to find in the gang-foreman.  His first words, and the manner in which they were spoken, added to this impression.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Good morning,” replied MacDougall, nodding toward Philip.  “This is Mr. Whittemore, Thorpe.  We saw your light, and thought you wouldn’t mind a call.”

Philip and Thorpe shook hands.

“Just in time to have a cup of coffee,” invited Thorpe, pleasantly, motioning toward a steaming pot on the stove.  “I just got in from a long hike out over the new road-bed.  Been looking the ground over along the north shore of the Gray Beaver, and was so interested that I didn’t start for home until dark.  Won’t you draw up, gentlemen?  There are mighty few who can beat me at making coffee.”

MacDougall had noted a sudden change in Philip’s face, and as Thorpe hastened to lift the over-boiling pot from the stove he saw his chief make a quick movement toward a small table, and pick up an object which looked like a bit of cloth.  In an instant Philip had hidden it in the palm of his hand.  A flush leaped into his cheeks.  A strange fire burned in his eyes when Thorpe turned.

“I’m afraid we can’t accept your hospitality,” he said.  “I’m tired, and want to get to bed.  In passing, however, I couldn’t refrain from dropping in to compliment you on the remarkable work your men are doing out on the plain.  It’s splendid.”

“They’re good men,” said Thorpe, quietly.  “Pretty wild, but good workers.”

He followed them to the door.  Outside, Philip’s voice trembled when he spoke to MacDougall.

“You go for the others, and bring them to the office, Sandy,” he said.  “I said nothing to Thorpe because I have no confidence in liars, and Thorpe is a liar.  He was not out to the Gray Beaver to-day; for I saw him when he came in—­from the opposite direction.  He is a liar, and he will bear watching.  Mind that, Sandy.  Keep your eyes on this man Thorpe.  And keep your eyes on his gang.  Hustle the others over to the office as soon as you can.”

They separated, and Philip returned to the cabin which they had left a few minutes before.  He relighted the lamp, and with a sharp gasp in his breath held out before his eyes the object which he had taken from Thorpe’s table.  He knew now why Thorpe had come from over the mountains that night, why he was exhausted, and why he had lied.  He clasped his head between his hands, scarcely believing the evidence of his eyes.  A deeper breath, almost a moan, fell from his twisted lips.  For he had discovered that Thorpe, the gang-foreman, was Jeanne’s lover.  In his hand he held the dainty handkerchief, embroidered in blue, which he had seen in Jeanne’s possession earlier that evening—­crumpled and discolored, still damp with her tears!