Glen of the High North | Page 4

all the more interesting. If I could tell you where he
is, and you merely went and found him, bah! that would not be worth
the trouble. But the uncertainty of it all is what appeals to me. The
whole world is before you, and somewhere in the world I believe Henry
Redmond is living. Your task is to find him. Can you do it?"
For a few minutes Reynolds did not speak. He was interested, but the
undertaking seemed so utterly hopeless and ridiculous that he hesitated.
If he had the slightest clue as to the man's whereabouts it would be
different.
"How old a man was Redmond when he disappeared?" he at length
asked.
"About fifty, I understand, although he appeared much older at times.
He was a fine looking man, over six feet in height, and a large head,
crowned with a wealth of hair streaked with gray, when last I saw him.
His commanding appearance attracted attention wherever he went, and
that should aid you somewhat in your search."
"Had he any family?" Reynolds questioned.
"One little girl only, for he married late in life. His friends thought that
he would remain a permanent bachelor, and they were greatly surprised
when he unexpectedly took to himself a wife much younger than
himself, and very beautiful. They lived most happily together, and
when his wife died Redmond was heartbroken."
"Perhaps her death affected his mind," Reynolds suggested.
"I have thought of that, and his sudden disappearance, as well as the
peculiar letter I read to you, lends color to the idea."

"What became of the child?"
"No one knows. He evidently took her with him, and that is another
reason why I believe no harm befell him as you suggested. The whole
affair is involved in the deepest mystery."
"And did no one attempt to solve it?" Reynolds asked. "Was no effort
made to find the missing man?"
"There was at the time, and the newspapers far and near made mention
of his disappearance. It was the talk of the city for several weeks, and I
understand that several men thought seriously of searching for him. But
the interest gradually waned, and he was forgotten except by a few, of
whom I am one."
Reynolds rose to his feet and picked up his hat.
"Suppose I think this over for a few days?" he suggested. "If I get the
fever I shall let you know. In the meantime I shall plug away at my
present job. I can't afford to be idle, for 'idleness is the holiday of fools,'
as someone has said."
"That's fine, Tom," and the editor's face brightened with pleasure. "And,
remember, you shall be supplied with all the money you need, so do
not worry about that."
"Thank you, but I have a little of my own that will last me for a while.
When I run through with it I may call upon you."
"Very well, do as you like, Tom. But think it over and let me know of
your decision as soon as possible."
CHAPTER II
WHEN THE FOG-BANK LIFTED
The Northern Light was lying at her wharf preparing for her long run to
the far Northern Pacific, through the numerous islands studding the

coastal waters of British Columbia, and the United States Territory of
Alaska. All day long she had been taking on board great quantities of
freight, and now on the eve of her departure passengers were arriving.
The latter were mostly men, for new gold diggings had been discovered
back in the hills bordering the Yukon River, and old-timers were
flocking northward, anticipating another Klondyke, and all that it might
mean.
Tom Reynolds stood on the wharf noting the excitement that was
taking place around him. Apart from the article he would prepare for
the next day's issue of _The Telegram_; he was more than usually
interested in what he beheld. As he watched several bronzed and
grizzly veterans of many a long trail and wild stampede, a desire
entered into his heart to join them in their new adventure. He would
thus find excitement enough to satisfy his restless nature, and perhaps
at the same time share in the golden harvest.
This longing, however, was held in check by the thought of the story he
had heard the evening before, and also by the hope of seeing again the
face he had beheld for a few fleeting seconds at the street crossing. In
fact, he had thought more of it than of the mysterious disappearance of
Henry Redmond. For the greater part of the night and all the next day
the girl had been in his mind. He tried to recall something more about
her, the color of her hair, how she was dressed, and whether she was