I hurried toward it. The angular outline of Spoof's shack emerged gradually out of the mist, like a sunken boat rising slowly to the surface of the water. Half of it was concealed at best by the great drifts that bordered it. I found my way to the shack, around the corner, to the door. Should I knock? Prairie manners, particularly among bachelor neighbours, are free and easy. It would be no great breach of etiquette for me casually to enter Spoof's house without knocking. I believed I had done that before. And there would be a purpose in it, now of all times . . . I knocked. There was no answer. That was subject to different explanations. A knock on a bachelor's door, miles from a neighbour, in midwinter, is a thing so unexpected that sometimes the ear does not register it; it merely cocks itself to make sure if the sound should be repeated. I knocked again. In a moment the door opened, and I saw Spoof, in a flannel shirt and smoking jacket, corduroy trousers, moccasins--I think I took in every detail of his attire. His tie was drawn neatly up to the throat; his hair was well brushed; he had not shaved. His moustache was heavier, his face paler, thinner---- "Why, Frank!" he exclaimed. I seemed to hear both welcome and embarrassment in his voice. "Come in, old man! This is quite a day at section Two." On account of the dull weather and the frosted windows Spoof had a lamp burning; it was a brass lamp, with a twisted, ornamental bowl and a cloth shade of some old gold color. It stood on a shelf which he had built in a corner of his only room; its subdued but cheerful light touched the objects in the little shack with a glint of color which was in sharp contrast to the drab day outside. Spoof's couch had been made up; his steamer rug lay tucked about it. The walls were a maze of firearms, prints, curios. There was the warmth of a fire and the odor of something cooking. In the corner opposite to the lamp, on the floor, on a mat, sat Jean. Her knees were propped up in front of her and her long, supple fingers were linked about them. It was as she had sat that day--what, only yesterday?--with me under the great drift on the bank of the gully. A tapestry affair of some kind, hung on the wall, sheltered her from direct contact with the cold boards, and a cushion with a yellow dragon further protected her. She looked up at me as I entered and her face was a riddle too enigmatic to analyse. Annoyance, defiance, pleasure, humor, indifference, were strangely and inextricably interwoven. "Hello, Frank," she said, quietly. "You see, Je----Miss Lane is an early caller," Spoof explained. "Although not a frequent one," he added, "any more than you are. If she had known you were coming no doubt you would have come together." "Yes, that might have been better," I said, pointedly. "The trail is gone," Spoof continued, ignoring the jab in my remark. "It must have taken some skill to find the direction."