I could make nothing out of it. I was
satisfied, however, that it was meant to warn me--to indicate some
danger that threatened myself or the fort.

"It is a mysterious affair altogether," I reflected. "I can't fathom it.
Gray Moose may be the sender, but how did he get the bark under my door?
Ah, perhaps he conveyed it by some of the Indians who came to trade;
they must have been admitted to the inclosure an hour ago."

But this explanation was not plausible enough. After some further
thought, I concluded that the warning came from some of the Indian
employees within the fort, who had learned from their own people of some
threatening danger, and had chosen this means of communicating it. Then,
looking more closely at the bark, I discovered in the background a few
rude lines that had escaped my notice before. They were unmistakably
intended for the barred window of the trading room, and of a sudden the
solution to the problem flashed upon me.

"I was right in the first place," I muttered. "This is the handiwork of
Gray Moose, after all. And now, to make sure, I'll set about it quietly,
and won't say anything to the factor until my suspicions are confirmed."

I hastened from my quarters, forgetting that I had not yet breakfasted.
I was so intent on my task that I did not even glance toward the upper
windows of the factor's house, where I usually caught a glimpse of
Flora's pretty face at this hour. The birch bark I had tucked out of
sight in my pocket.

The gates of the stockade were wide open, and within the inclosure a
number of Indians--a dozen or more--were standing in groups around
sledges packed with furs waiting their turn to be served. They had left
their muskets outside, as was the rule when they came to trade. I
glanced keenly at them from a distance, and passed on to the trading
house, entering by the private door in the rear.

Here, looking from the storeroom into the common room beyond, the scene
was a noisy and brilliant one. Half a score of gayly-attired savages
were talking in guttural tones, gesticulating, and pointing, demanding
this and that.

Griffith Hawke greeted me with a nod. He and two assistants were busily
engaged at the barred window of the partition, receiving and counting
bales of skins, passing out little wooden castors, and taking them in
again in exchange for powder and shot, tobacco and beads, and various
other commodities.

For a few moments I watched the scene sharply, though