"We're willing to pay him for any useful help," Harding replied.

"Be careful," said the farmer. "If you're on a prospecting trip, keep your secret close. There's another thing I might mention." He turned to Blake. "If you're a friend of Benson's, take him along with you."

"I suppose I am, in a way, though it's a long time since I met him.

But why do you recommend our taking him?"

"I hate to see a man go to pieces as Benson's doing, and Clarke's ruining the fellow. He must have got two or three thousand dollars out of him one way or another and isn't satisfied with that. Lent him money on mortgage to start a foolish stock-raising speculation and keeps him well supplied with drink. The fellow's weak, but he has his good points."

"But what's Clarke's object?"

"It isn't very clear, but a man who's seldom sober is easily robbed and Benson's place is worth something; Clarke sees it's properly farmed.

However, you must use your judgment about anything he tells you; I've given you warning."

He went away and Blake sat silent for a time. Though they had not been intimate friends, he had known Benson when the latter was a wild young subaltern, and it did not seem fitting to leave him in the clutches of a man who was ruining him in health and fortune. He would sooner not have met the man at all, but since they had met, there was, so far as he could see, only one thing to be done.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to take Benson with us," he said to Harding.

The American looked doubtful. "We could do with another white man, but I guess your friend isn't the kind we want. He may give us trouble, and you can't count on much help from a whisky-tank. However, if you wish it, you can bring him."

Soon afterwards Benson came out from the dining-room. He was two or three years younger than Blake and had a muscular figure, but he looked shaky and his face was weak and marked by dissipation. Smiling in a deprecatory way, he lighted a cigar.

"I'm afraid I made a fool of myself last night," he said. "If I made any unfortunate allusions you must overlook them. You must have seen that I wasn't altogether responsible."

"I did," Blake answered drily. "If we are to remain friends, you had better understand that I can't tolerate any further mention of the matter you talked about."

"Sorry," said Benson, who gave him a keen glance. "Though I don't think you have much cause to be touchy about it, I'll try to remember."

"Then I'd like you to know my partner, Mr. Harding, who has agreed to a suggestion I'm going to make. We want you to come with us on a trip to the northern bush."

"Thanks," said Benson, who shook hands with Harding. "I wonder what use you think I would be?"

"To tell the truth, I haven't considered whether you would be of any use or not; but you had better come. The trip will brace you up, and you look as if you needed it."

Benson's face grew red. "Your intentions may be good, but you virtuous and respectable people sometimes show a meddlesome thoughtfulness which degenerates like myself resent. Besides, I suspect your offer has come too late."

"I don't think you have much reason for taunting me with being respectable," Blake rejoined with a grim smile. "Anyway, I want you to come with us."

Tilting his chair back, Benson looked heavily about. "When I was new to the country I often wished to go north. There are caribou and moose up yonder; great sights when the rivers break up in spring, and a sledge trip across the snow must be a thing to remember. The wilds draw you, but I'm afraid my nerve's not good enough. A man must be fit in every way to cross the timber belt."

"Then why aren't you fit? Why have you let that fellow Clarke suck the life and energy out of you, as well as rob you of your money?"

"You hit hard, but I expect I deserve it, and I'll try to explain."

Benson indicated the desolate settlement with a gesture of weariness.

Ugly frame houses straggled, weather-scarred and dilapidated, along one side of the unpaved street, while unsightly refuse dumps disfigured the slopes of the ravine in front. There was no sign of activity, but two or three untidy loungers leaned against a rude shack with "Pool Room,"

painted on its dirty window. All round, the rolling prairie stretched back to the horizon, washed in dingy drab and grey. The prospect was dreary and depressing.

"This place," Benson resumed, "hasn't much to offer one in the way of relaxation, and, for a man used to something different, life at a lonely homestead soon loses its charm. Unless he's a keen farmer, he's apt to go to bits."

"Then why don't you quit?" Harding asked.

"Where could I go? A man with no profession except the one he hasn't the means to follow is not much use at home, and all my money is sunk in my place here. As things stand, I can't sell it." He turned to Blake. "I left the army because a financial disaster I wasn't responsible for stopped my allowance and I was in debt. Eventually about two thousand pounds were saved out of the wreck, and I came here with that feeling badly hipped, which was one reason why I took to whisky, and Clarke, who engaged to teach me farming, saw I got plenty of it. Now he has his hands on all that's mine, but he keeps me fairly supplied with cash, and it saves trouble to leave things to him."

When Benson stopped Blake made a sign of comprehension, for he knew that somewhat exceptional qualities are required of the man who undertakes the breaking of virgin prairie in the remoter districts. He must have unflinching courage and stubbornness and be able to dispense with all the comforts and amenities of civilized life. No interests are offered him beyond those connected with his task; for half the year he must toil unremittingly from dawn to dark, and depend upon his own resources through the long, bitter winter. For society he may have a hired hand and the loungers in the saloon of the nearest settlement, which is often a day's ride away, and they are not, as a rule, men of culture or pleasing manners. For the strong in mind and body it is nevertheless a healthful life, but Benson was not of sufficiently tough fibre.

"Now see here," said Harding. "I'm out for dollars, and this is a business trip, but Blake wants to take you and I'm agreeable. If you can stand for two or three months hard work in the open and very plain living, you'll feel yourself a match for Clarke when you get back.

Though there's no reason why you should tell a stranger like myself how you stand if you'd sooner not, I know something of business and might see a way out of your difficulties."

Benson hesitated. He would have resented an attempt to use his troubles as a text for improving remarks, since he already knew his failings. What he desired was a means of escaping their consequences, and the American, whose tone was rea.s.suringly matter of fact, seemed to offer it. He began an explanation and, with the help of a few leading questions, made his financial position fairly clear.

"Well," said Harding, "Clarke has certainly got a tight hold on you, but I guess it's possible to shake him off. As things stand, however, it seems to me he has most to gain from your death."

"He couldn't count on that; to do the fellow justice, he'd hardly go so far, but there's some truth in what you say." Benson looked disturbed and irresolute, but after a few moments he abruptly threw his cigar away and leaned forward with a decided air. "If you'll have me, I'll go with you."

"You're wise," Harding said quietly.

Shortly afterwards Benson left them and Harding said to Blake, "Now you had better go along and see if you can learn anything from Clarke about our road. He's a rogue, but that's no reason we shouldn't make him useful. If he can help us, pay him and be careful what you say.

Remember that he was watching you at the _Windsor_, and I've a suspicion that he was standing in the shadow near the stairs when Benson talked last night."

Borrowing a saddle, Blake rode over to Clarke's homestead, which had a well-kept, prosperous look, and found its owner in a small room furnished as an office. Files of papers and a large map of the Western Provinces hung upon one wall; the floor was uncovered and a rusty stove stood in the middle of it, but Clarke was seated at a handsome American desk. He wore old overalls and the soil upon his boots suggested that he had been engaged in fall ploughing. As Benson came in he looked up and the light fell upon his face. It was deeply lined and of a curious dead colour, but while it bore a sensual stamp and something in it hinted at cruelty, it was, Blake felt, the face of a clever and determined man.

"Ah!" he said, "you have ridden over for a talk. Glad to see you.

Have a cigar."

Blake, who took one, explained his errand and Clarke seemed to consider. Then he took out a small hand-drawn map and pa.s.sed it to his visitor.

"I won't ask why you are going north, as I daresay it's a secret," he remarked. "However, though it's too valuable for me to lend it you, this will show you your way through the timber belt." He cleared the other end of the desk. "Sit here and make a note of the features of the country."

It took Blake some time, but he had been taught such work and did it carefully. When he had finished, Clarke resumed: "I'll give you a few directions, and you had better take them down, but you'll want a canoe and one or two Indians. I daresay I could enable you to get them, but I think the service is worth fifty dollars."

"I'd be glad to pay it when we come back," Blake answered cautiously.

"It's possible that we mightn't find the Indians, and we might leave the water and strike overland."

"As you like," Clarke said with a smile. "I'll give you the directions before you go, but there's another matter I want to talk about." He fixed his eyes on Blake. "You are a nephew of Colonel Challoner's."

"I am, but I can't see what connexion this has----"

Clarke stopped him. "It's not an impertinence. Hear me out. You were a lieutenant of engineers and served in India, where you left the army."

"That is correct, but it's not a subject I'm disposed to talk about."

"So I imagined," Clarke said drily. "Still I would like to say that there is some reason for believing you to be a badly treated man. You have my sympathy."

"Thank you," said Blake. "I must remind you that I have given you no grounds for offering it."

"A painful subject! But are you content to quietly suffer injustice?"

"I don't admit an injustice. Besides, I don't see what you can know about the matter."