the hold-up, and the double murder, a slight sound caused me to turn my
head, and I saw in a doorway that led to another room the erect figure
of Major Lessard listening intently, a black frown on his eagle face.
When MacRae had finished his story and the incapable blockhead behind
the desk sat there regarding the two of us as though he considered that
we had been the victims of a rank hallucination, Lessard slammed the
door shut behind him and strode into the room.

"I'll take charge of this, Captain Dobson," he brusquely informed the
red-faced numskull.

Taking his stand at the end of the desk, he made MacRae reiterate in
detail the grim happenings of that night. That over, he quizzed me for a
few minutes. Then he turned loose on MacRae with a battery of questions.
Could he give a description of the men? Would he be able to identify
them? Why did he not exercise more precaution when investigating
anything so suspicious as a concealed fire? Why this, why that? Why
didn't he send a trooper to report at once instead of wasting time in
going to Stony Crossing? And a dozen more.

With every word his thin-lipped mouth drew into harder lines, and the
cold, domineering tone, weighted heavy with sneering emphasis, grated on
me till I wanted to reach over and slap his handsome, smooth-shaven
face. But MacRae stood at "attention" and took his medicine dumbly. He
had to. He was in the presence, and answering the catechism, of a
superior officer, and his superior officer by virtue of a commission
from the Canadian government could insult his manhood and lash him
unmercifully with a viperish tongue, and if he dared to resent it by
word or deed there was the guardhouse and the shame of irons--for
discipline must be maintained at any cost! I thanked the star of destiny