I wonder what Kendale is doing.

He promised to let me know how he got on.
"I have not heard from him for nearly a week now.

Perhaps they made the discovery that he was not the real Lester Armstrong, and have placed him in limbo; but it strikes me that in such a predicament he would hasten to communicate with me, apprising me of the fact.
"Then, again," he ruminated, "Kendale is thoroughly selfish to the backbone, and if he has successfully hoodwinked these people and is living off the fat of the land and rolling in money, as it were, ten chances to one he has quite forgotten my very existence.
"He ought to have sent me more provisions to-day, and more tobacco; and it is nightfall and no sign of any one." The next day and the next passed in the same fashion.
By this time Halloran had become thoroughly exasperated.
"This settles the bill," he muttered; "I leave this place to-night.

I do not see much need of staying here any longer, anyhow.

Armstrong will not last many hours longer; he couldn't; it's beyond human physical possibility." In the semi-twilight he looked in at his prisoner.
Lester had fallen into so deep a sleep that he seemed scarcely to breathe, and the dim, fading light falling in through the chinks of the boarded window gave his face, which was beginning to grow pale because of his confinement, an unusually grayish pallor at this twilight hour.
"Ha! ha!" muttered Halloran, setting his teeth hard together; "it is perfectly safe to leave him now.