for Montreal, and at night Mrs. Farnam made Agatha come with her while
she examined the fastenings of the doors and windows. The house was low
and the roof of the veranda in front reached nearly to the second
floor. Nothing disturbing happened, and on the next night Agatha sat up
after Mrs. Farnam had gone to bed, reading the letters Strange had
written her from the North.

There were not many, and some were marked by a careless style that
obscured the meaning. This puzzled Agatha, who remembered that her
father had generally talked with lucid clearness. Still they helped her
to picture the life he had led in the wilds, and she read them often,
trying to follow on a map his wanderings in search of the lode. They
told her more about the country than the books she read, and she had
read a number, because the subject had a fascination. All she could
learn would be of use when she came to carry out her plans.

When she tied up the letters and looked at the clock it was later than
she thought. The room felt cold and she shivered, but sat still for a
few moments, musing. The house was quiet and she imagined Mrs. Farnam
was asleep; but it was snowing, for she heard the flakes beat upon the
window. Looking round the comfortable room, she thought of the men who
braved the rigors of winter in the frozen wilds. Thirlwell, for example,
was bearing such cold as was never felt in South Ontario.

She started, for there was a noise overhead, as if a door had been
gently opened, but next moment pulled herself together. Mabel had not
gone to sleep as she had thought, and picking up an electric torch, she
put out the lamp. When she was half way up the stairs she heard somebody
moving about, but it was not like Mabel's step. The movements seemed
cautious, and there was something awkward about them. Agatha, who wore