She stood in the open doorway holding the lamp above her head as he and Reddy started together down the path to the gate. They had almost reached it, when Reddy suddenly paused, rubbed his forehead perplexedly, and then glanced around at the figure in the doorway. “I’ve got t’ go back a minute,” he said, apologetically. “You go ahead. I’ll ketch up with you.” Allan walked on slowly, then, at the gate, he looked around. Reddy was holding Mrs. Magraw in his arms, kissing her as tenderly as any lover. The quick moisture sprang to Allan’s eyes; he closed the gate behind him, and started across the yards; for Reddy’s house was perched on an embankment which had been left when the lower yards had been graded down to their present level. A minute later, he heard quick steps behind him and Reddy came running up. “I jest had t’ go back,” he explained, a little shamefacedly. “I don’t know what it was—but somethin’ kind o’ took me by the elbow an’ steered me around. Mighty queer.” They walked on together in silence to the freight-house. As soon as they approached it, they were challenged sharply, and stopped by one of the deputies. Stanley, attracted by the noise, came up a moment later and passed them through. “Nobody can come through that line, day or night, unless I say so,” he explained. “I’m not going to take any chances.” “That’s right,” agreed Allan heartily. “Mr. Stanley, this is Reddy Magraw.” “Yes,” said Stanley. “I know him. He’s all right.” “I’m glad you think so. I’m putting him on the inside to keep his eyes open. He’ll report to you, but you oughtn’t to be seen talking together too much. You’ll report to me, or send him on to me, when you can.” “All right, Mr. West. I’d suggest that he comes along after while and asks the cook for a job. He’d better not make his first appearance with you and me.” “That’s a good idea. You wait here, Reddy, till you’re sent for.” “Right,” agreed Reddy, and sat down on the platform. Stanley opened the door of the freight-house and led the way in. It was the first time Allan had seen it in its new incarnation, and it wasn’t exactly what one would call an attractive scene. Indeed, it was indescribably sordid. Some of the men had gone to bed; others were sitting around the tables playing cards or listlessly turning the leaves of the illustrated papers. The gas lights overhead flared dimly through a haze of tobacco smoke. The odour of cooking still lingered in the air, with onions striking the high note, and at one end of the room, the cook was sullenly banging the tin dishes around, as he made a pretence of washing them. “He won’t know Reddy,” said Stanley, in an aside. “He ain’t been in town long, an’ while he was here, he never stuck his nose outside that little joint where he worked. Hello, Sam,” he added, in a voice which everyone could hear. “It looks to me like you need some help.”