“Six years ago a family corresponding in numbers and personnel to your rescued party disappeared from the Windermere Valley, vanished into space, absolutely into thin air—quite unbelievable, but actually did, you know. Head’s all terribly up in the air about it. Reputation of force and all that, you know. Of course, they had a week’s start. Fellow refused to lay information.” “Now then, Sergeant, if you will tell me what you are discoursing upon I will be obliged, but if not you may as well shut your gab,” said MacKinroy, athirst for news from the outside and annoyed at the sergeant’s scrappy and wholly unsatisfactory account of what offered mystery. “Oh, I beg pardon, MacKinroy. Forgot you were out of it. The bones of it I’ll give you. Chap, Gaspard by name, rancher, artist, tangled up with Indian girl—Athabascan chief’s daughter—after his wife died went dippy, married Indian girl, brought her back to ranch with two children, both his, youngest blind girl—my clue, see?—neighbor rancher, Sleeman by name, bad lot, hanging round, monkeying round with Indian woman, Gaspard and his son, this young fellow here I fancy, came on the scene, found her fighting off Sleeman, jumped for his gun, the woman grabbed him to prevent murder, in the struggle Gaspard was shot, died; woman goes quite mad, moons round giving out signs of dementia, one night Sleeman’s house goes up in smoke, Sleeman himself pulled out of the fire by one of ours with an ugly knife wound in the ribs, at first charged Indian woman with crime, later refused to make any formal deposition; same night woman and whole bunch vamoose utterly, fade off the landscape, trail lost completely. Of course, every Indian in the North Country sets himself to mix that trail. For two years search actively carried on, then slacked off—Sleeman’s influence, I suspect—but all the same it will be _kudos_ for the man that lands ’em, and I fancy that’s me.” “Huh! It will be good for you to see Chambers,” said MacKinroy in a doubtful tone. “I shall see him,” said Sergeant Starr. “He has sense.” The sergeant was right. Chambers had sense, as he made abundantly evident after hearing the officer’s story. “You won’t get her, Starr,” he said. “You will lose your _kudos_, old chap.” “You mean she is——” “There’s another call come for her, a call which takes precedence over that of the North-West Mounted Police.” “Hard luck, eh, Chambers? What about them, the youngsters I mean?” “Don’t know. No plans yet. Must have a talk with her and with Paul. Pretty much of a man, that young chap.” “Let me in on that, Chambers. I might help and it might clear things up a bit.” “I shall see about it,” said Chambers. “No use worrying her.” “Shan’t worry her. Does she know she didn’t kill the man, for instance?” asked the sergeant. “True enough. I shall see Paul.” Paul’s answer when the missionary broached the subject was a prompt and decisive negative.