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62 "I promised to take my next sketch of you down to Grange's. That new waitress seemed quite a good deal struck on you, Poley."

In the dark Tempest grinned. He heard Poley shuffle over the floor.

"There's yer plates," he said pacifically. "Off wi' yer. I'll open the door."

An icy breath rushed in to prove it. Tempest turned into his own room. Dick's knowledge of the forces which moved humanity might not be high, but no man could deny that they were occasionally diabolically convincing.

On the next morning when breakfast was done Tempest gave his commands to Dick.

"You'll have to go out on the Moon-Dance trail right away," he said. "Word has just come in that O'Hara has had his team go to blazes with him again. He always does, but I'm afraid he's got it for good this time. De Choiseaux is just off, and I want you along with him to take O'Hara's depositions if necessary."

Dick had his own ideas for that day.

"We were going over to Ducane's," he objected.

"That can wait. O'Hara probably won't. You'd best take some grub, and—you may have to stay all night, you know." Then, ten minutes later, when the doctor's rig swung up to the door, he added, "De Choiseaux has mighty little English and O'Hara hasn't a word of French. If you have to put him through just—be a bit merciful if he hasn't your contempt for such small things as eternity and death."

Dick nodded sulkily at the whimsical face, and tucked himself into the rig where the pony fidgeted with lowered quarters and ears laid back.

"You'd best do those kind o' chores yourself," he muttered. And then, as the pony went down the trail like a loosed spring, he turned his collar up against the air that was sharp and brittle-feeling as glass, and retired on his inmost thought.

De Choiseaux drove with his knees up and a rein in each great fur-mittened hand. He was doctor for some uncounted hundreds of miles here and there, and as French as a man can possibly be who has lived twelve strenuous