"Well," said the American, closing his eyes for the better enjoyment of the analysis, and giving a long, slow pull at his cigar, "there might have been any one of several things. My idea is that he was a defaulter, and the thousand-dollar bills--there were forty or fifty of them, Oiseau says--were part of the money he got away with. Then, very likely he had no faith in Oiseau--knew it was probably a soap-mine, and was just putting him off till he could get away himself. Or, maybe his fever left him a little cracked, and he didn't know exactly what he was about. Then, again, if my theory of what the man was is true, I think that kind of fellow gets a twist simply from what he's done. A good many of them must bring money away with them, and there are business openings everywhere; but you never hear of their going into anything over here." "That _is_ odd," said the Canadian. "Or would be if it were not so common. It's the rule here, and I don't know an exception. The defaulter never does anything with his money, except live on it. Meigs, who built those railroads on the Andes, is the only one who ever showed enterprise; and I never understood that it was a private enterprise with him. Anyway, the American defaulter who goes to Canada never makes any effort to grow up with the country. He simply rests on his laurels, or else employs his little savings to negotiate a safe return. No, sir; there's something in defalcation that saps a man's business energies, and I don't suppose that old fellow would have been able to invest in Oiseau's gold mine if it had opened at his feet, and he could have seen the sovereigns ready coined in it. He just _couldn't_. I can understand that state of mind, though I don't pretend to respect it. I can imagine just how the man _trembled_ to go into some speculation, and didn't dare to. Must have been an old hand at it, too. But it seems as if the money he steals becomes sacred to a man when he gets away with it, and he can't risk it." "I rather think you could have overcome his scruples, Markham, if you could have got at him," said the Canadian. "Perhaps," Markham assented. "But I guess I can do better with our stock in England." Pinney had let his cigar go out, in his excitement. He asked Markham for a light, though there were plenty of matches, and Markham accepted the request as an overture to his acquaintance. "Brother Yank?" he suggested. "Boston." "Going over?" "Only to Rimouski. You don't happen to know the name of that defaulter, do you?" "No; I don't," said Markham. "I had an idea I knew who it was," said Pinney. Markham looked sharply at him. "After somebody in Rimouski?" "Well, not just in that sense, exactly, if you mean as a detective. But I'm a newspaper man, and this is my holiday, and I'm working up a little article about our financiers in exile while I'm resting. My name's Pinney."