NOVEMBER JOE
I hunted with him years ago when he lived on the Montmorency."
"Is that so?" Her face relaxed a little. "Well, perhaps . . ." she conceded.
"Of course, I'll carry the message."
"It's quite a way to his place. November does n't care about strangers; he's a solitary man. You must follow the tote-road you were on to-day fifteen miles, turn west at the deserted lumber-camp, cross Charley's Brook, Joe lives about two acres up the far bank." She lifted the receiver. "Shall I say you'll go?"
"By all means."
A few seconds later I was at the 'phone taking my instructions.
It appeared that the speaker was the Chief of Police in Quebec, who was, of course, well known to me. I will let you have his own words.
"Very good of you, I'm sure, Mr. Quaritch. Yes, we want November Joe to be told that a man named Henry Lyon has been shot in his camp down at Big Tree Portage, on Depot River. The news came in just now, telephoned through by a lumber-jack who found the body. Tell Joe, please, success means fifty dollars to
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