Blake turned away, but when he left the hotel his face was sternly set.
It had cost him something to check his cousin's friendly advances and
break the last connection between himself and the life he once had led;
but he knew it must be broken, and he felt no pang of envious
bitterness. For many years Bertram had been a good and generous
friend, and Blake sincerely wished him well.

The Challoners left by the Pacific Express the next morning, and that
evening a group of men were engaged in conversation at one end of the
hotel rotunda. One was a sawmill owner; another served the Hudson Bay
Company in the northern wilds; the third was a young, keen-eyed
American, quick in his movements and concise in speech.

"You're in lumber, aren't you?" he said, taking a strip of wood from
his pocket and handing it to the mill owner. "What would you call
this?"

"Cedar, sawn from a good log."

"That's so; red cedar. You know something about that material?"

"I ought to, considering how much of it I've cut. Been in the business
for twenty years."

The American took out another strip.

"The same stuff, sir. How would you say it had been treated?"

The sawmill man carefully examined the piece of wood.