No sooner had they gone than Howland closed and barred the door, lighted
another cigar, and began pacing rapidly up and down the room. Already
there were developments. Gregson had lied to him about his finger.
Thorne had lied to him about his own injuries, whatever they were. He
was certain of these two things--and of more. The two senior engineers
were not leaving the Wekusko because of mere dissatisfaction with the
work and country. They were fleeing. And for some reason they were
keeping from him the real motive for their flight. Was it possible that
they were deliberately sacrificing him in order to save themselves? He
could not bring himself to believe this, notwithstanding the evidence
against them. Both were men of irreproachable honor. Thorne,
especially, was a man of indomitable nerve--a man who would be the last
in the world to prove treacherous to a business associate or a friend.
He was sure that neither of them knew of Croisset or of the beautiful
girl whom he had met at Prince Albert, which led him to believe that
there were other characters in the strange plot in which he had become
involved besides those whom he had encountered on the Great North Trail.
Again he examined the barricaded window and he was more than ever
convinced that his chance hit at Thorne had struck true.

He was tired from his long day's travel but little inclination to sleep
came to him, and stretching himself out on the lounge with his head and
shoulders bolstered up with furs, he continued to smoke and think. He
was surprised when a little clock tinkled the hour of eleven. He had not
seen the clock before. Now he listened to the faint monotonous ticking
it made close to his head until he felt an impelling drowsiness creeping
over him and he closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when it struck
again--softly, and yet with sufficient loudness to arouse him. It had
struck twelve.