he's a foreigner, raised in the fur trade. He can spot topped or
pointed furs as far as he can see them, an' as for appraisin' them, he
can tell almost to a dollar the value of any piece ye could show him.
But----"

The door opened and Murchison turned to greet a newcomer. "Hello,
Downey!" he called. "'Tis a long time since ye've favored Gods Lake
with a visit. Come up to the stove, lad, an' meet Mr. Wentworth.

"Mr. Wentworth, this is Corporal Downey, of the Royal Northwest Mounted
Police." At the word police Wentworth started ever so slightly, but
caught himself on the instant. He searched the keen gray eyes of the
officer as he extended his hand, but if Downey noticed the momentary
trepidation he gave no sign.

"So you're Wentworth," he remarked casually, as he swung the light pack
from his shoulders.

"_Captain_ Wentworth."

"Oh," Downey accorded him a slanting glance, and entered into
conversation with Murchison.

"You knew my name, do you want to see me?" Wentworth interrupted after
a wait of several minutes.

"No, not in particular. Only if I was you I'd beware of a dark-haired
man, as the fortune-tellers say."

"What do you mean?"