"Not much. But if I was him I'd come." "Why?" "Oh!" Philip Rice drew a long breath. "I'd want to see just what was doing, that's all." While talking they were walking around the yard, and now came to a halt in the shadow of a shed. As they did this, Owen happened to glance at one of the men who were shifting boards from one pile to another. "Hullo, where did he come from?" he cried, in astonishment. "He?--who?" questioned Mr. Rice. "That fellow over there," and Owen pointed with his finger. "Do you mean Derande?" "His name isn't Derande." "That is what the fellow calls himself. He came here from Canada about two weeks ago and asked for a job. Do you know him?" "I do--if he is the fellow I take him to be. I'd like to get a better look at him." "Why not go up and talk to him?" asked Philip Rice, with interest. "No; I want to look at him first. I may be mistaken. Wait a minute." "But I don't understand." "The fellow I take him to be is a thief from Maine. He stole a horse once, and he tried to rob Mr. Wilbur's lodge. He was caught, but escaped from jail while awaiting trial." "Is it possible! And you think this is the fellow?" "I do--but I had best make sure." Watching his chance, Owen left the shed and slipped around the end of a high pile of lumber. Then he made his way across a gangway and around some heavy timbers. In the meantime the man he was watching delivered some boards he was carrying and then came back for another supply. His steps brought him close to where Owen was standing, and as he passed, the young lumberman got a square look at his face. The man was Baptiste Ducrot. CHAPTER XXX ULMER BALASCO SHOWS HIS HAND "Hullo, Ducrot!" At the sound of Owen's voice the man who was carrying the boards across the lumber yard came to a sudden halt. He looked at the speaker in astonishment and his face fell. "So we meet again, eh?" went on Owen. "You didn't expect it--away out here, did you?" "I--I--not know you," stammered Baptiste Ducrot, trying to recover his self-possession. "Don't know me? Well, I know you well enough, Ducrot." "Why you call me Ducrot? Dat ees not my name. My name Derande--Pierre Derande." "Not much--you are Baptiste Ducrot, plain and simple." By this time Philip Rice had come up, and so had several of the workmen. All gazed curiously at Owen and Ducrot. "I not know you!" growled the French-Canadian. "You t'ink you make fool me, hey?" "You will think I am making a fool of you when you are behind the bars, Baptiste Ducrot." "Is it possible there is some mistake?" questioned Philip Rice anxiously. "This man may simply resemble somebody else." "I know him well," answered Owen. "There is a scar on his left hand, where he got hit with an ax one day. Another man wouldn't have just such a scar." "Who dis feller?" demanded Ducrot insolently. "I not know him 'tall. Why he bodder me?"