Arthur Delaine was strolling and smoking on the broad wooden balcony, which in the rear of the hotel at Banff overlooks a wide scene of alp and water.

The splendid Bow River comes swirling past the hotel, on its rush from the high mountains to the plains of Saskatchewan.

Craggy mountains drop almost to the river's edge on one side; on the other, pine woods mask the railway and the hills; while in the distance shine the snow-peaks of the Rockies.

It is the gateway of the mountains, fair and widely spaced, as becomes their dignity.
Delaine, however, was not observing the scenery.

He was entirely absorbed by reflection on his own affairs.