He turned over his paper with a little laugh.  “It doesn’t interest you?  Well, if you had lived out at Willow six years as I have you’d be glad of anything to talk about, if it was only the affairs of one of Clouston’s waitresses.”

Courthorne yawned again openly and took from his pocket a letter that he had received the day before at another little town to which, in accordance with directions given, it had been forwarded him.  It was from one of his whisky-running comrades and had somewhat puzzled him.

“There’s about one hundred dollars due you, and we’re willing to pay up,” it ran.  “Still, now we hear you’re going back east to the Silverdale settlement it’s quite likely you won’t want them as much as the rest of us do.  It’s supposed to be quite a big farm you have come into.”

Courthorne was a little troubled, as well as perplexed.  He had certainly not gone to Silverdale and had no notion of doing so, though he had distant relatives there, while, so far as he knew, nobody had left him a farm of any kind.  He had promised the whisky runners a guide on the night of Trooper Shannon’s death, and as it was dark when, muffled in Winston’s furs, he met the men—­who were, as it happened, for the most part new adherents, it seemed probable that they had not recognized him or had any reason to believe it was not Winston himself who was responsible for the trooper’s death.  It was not a very unusual thing for one of the smaller farmers to take a part in a smuggling venture now and then.  Still, the letter left him with an unpleasant uncertainty.

By and by his companion looked up from his paper again.

“You came from my part of the old country, I think?” he said, “I see a man of your name has died there lately, and he seems to have left a good deal of property.  Here’s a list of the bequests.”

He stopped a moment, and with another glance at it handed Courthorne the paper.  “I notice your own name among them, and it’s not a common one.”

Courthorne stretched out his hand for the paper, and his face became intent as he read:  “It is with regret many of our readers will hear of the death of Mr. Geoffrey Courthorne, well known in this vicinity as a politician with Imperialistic views and a benefactor of charitable schemes.  Among the bequests are . . .and one of the farms in the Silverdale colony he established in Western Canada to Lance Courthorne.”

He laid down the paper and sat rigidly still for a minute or two, while his companion glanced at him curiously.

“Then,” said the latter, “it’s you!”

“It is,” said Courthorne dryly.  “I’m much obliged to you for showing me the thing, but I’d be still more obliged if you wouldn’t worry me with any questions just now.”