"Do you wish accommodations?" he asked in a low voice, evidently desiring to leave Jim undisturbed with his mail.
"Breakfast, anyhow; probably that will be all." John signed the register. The other looked at his signature. "I'd like to get out to White's camp today. Maybe you can tell me who'll take me."
The man shook his head.
"Ain't been up in th' hardwood all winter, "he confessed still in that half tone. "When he gets through with his mail,"—a nod toward Jim—"Mr. Harris can tell you. He knows."
"What? What's that?" Harris looked up from his letter.
"This man wants to get to White's camp, Jim."
Harris removed his gold-rimmed eye-glasses and looked more closely at John. Behind the genial quality in that gaze was appraisal, a cunning, that Taylor had not sensed earlier.
"Up in Lincoln township," he said, "away at th' other end of the county. The livery can take you up." He replaced his glasses and shook the fold from the letter he read. Then: "White's gone."
"Gone?" startled.
"Yup. Camp's abandoned. Want to see him?"
John heard his own voice say: "No, I'm only interested in what he's been doing."
His heart sank. If White was gone, where were his logs, and how was he to get them out? Or had there ever been logs? He wanted to blurt out questions, but he could not; this was his business, his first business; and he had been so sure that it would all be simple. To ask questions would
