instincts were for the settled, the well-ordered, and the practical.  He would have been content with any humdrum existence that permitted his peaceable, commercially gifted soul to develop in its natural environment.  The process, therefore, by which Norrie Ford became Herbert Strange, even in his own thoughts, had been one of inner travail, though the outward conditions could not have been more favorable.  Now that he had reached a point where his more obvious anxieties were passing away, and the hope of safety was becoming a reality, he could look back and see how relatively easy everything had been.

He had leisure for reflection because it was the hour for the men’s midday meal and siesta.  He could see them grouped together—­some thirty-odd—­at the far end of the shed—­sturdy little Italians, black-eyed, smiling, thrifty, dirty, and contented to a degree that made them incomprehensible to the ambitious, upward-toiling American set over them.  They sat, or lounged, on piles of wood, or on the floor, some chattering, most of them asleep.  He had begun like them.  He had stacked wool under orders till he had made himself capable of being in command.  He had been beneath the ladder; and though his foot was only on the lowest rung of it even now, he was satisfied to have made this first step upward.

He could not be said to have taken it to his own surprise, since he had prepared himself for it, and for other such steps to follow it, knowing that they must become feasible in time.  He had been given to understand that what the Argentine, in common with some other countries, needed most was neither men nor capital, but intelligence.  Men were pouring in from every corner of the globe; capital was keen in looking for its opportunity; but for intelligence the demand was always greater than the supply.

The first intimation of such a need had come to him on the Empress of Erin, in mid-Atlantic, by a chance opportunity of the voyage.  It was on one of the first days of liberty when he had ventured to mix freely with his fellow-passengers.  Up to the present he had followed the rule of conduct adopted at the little Canadian station of Saint Jean du Clou Noir.  He went into public when necessary, but no oftener.  He did then what other people did, in the way to attract the least attention.  The season favored him, for amid the throngs of early autumn travellers, moving from country back to town, or from seaside resorts to the mountains he passed unnoticed.  At Quebec he was one of the crowd of tourists come to see the picturesque old town.  At Rimouski he was lost among the trainful of people from the Canadian maritime provinces taking the Atlantic steamer at a convenient port.  He lived through each minute in expectation of the law’s tap on his shoulder; but he acquired the habit of nonchalance.  On shipboard it was a relief to be able to shut himself up in his cabin—­his suite!—­feigning sickness, but really allowing his taut nerves to relax,