Once inside that house, the good Captain heaved a sigh of content. A large open fire gave the tiny living room a feeling of luxurious grandeur. And yet there was about it an air of tidy comfort. The furniture was plain. Hard-bottomed rockers had been softened by handmade cushions, all in bright colors. A touch of lace and embroidery here and there on table and chairs told of fingers never still. A short, energetic little lady with flushed cheeks hastened from the kitchen at the back to greet them. "Well, how do you do, Captain Burns? How good it is to see you!" "It's good to be here," the Captain rumbled. "And this, Mrs. LeClare, is my good friend Johnny Thompson. "And here," the Captain chuckled, "here's Alice. Ah, Johnny, there's a girl you could love!" Johnny flushed. The girl who extended her hand laughed a merry laugh. "The Captain must have his jokes." The hand Johnny grasped was a chubby, capable little hand; the eyes he looked into were frank and clear. The girl's hair was black. There was a slight natural wave in it. Her eyebrows were black and thick. She was short like her mother. Like her too, she gave forth an air of boundless energy. "Alice LeClare," Johnny said, half to himself. "A pretty name." "We are French," Alice explained, "Canadian French." "If you looked over the list of Mounties that have come and gone up in the bleak northland of Canada, you'd find many a LeClare," the Captain explained. "They're that sort." Johnny saw a shadow pass over Mrs. LeClare's face. Alice looked quickly away. "You'll have to excuse us," Mrs. LeClare explained after a moment of silence. "We're in the midst of things. Make yourselves comfortable by the fire." Just what sort of things the ladies were in the midst of, Johnny could guess well enough. The kitchen was not too far away--one great advantage of a small house--and from it came savory odors, meat roasting, pumpkin pies baking, apple sauce simmering. "They can cook," said the Captain, dropping into a chair with the air of a contented dog. "These Canadian French can cook. And what workers they are, these people! "The boys will be here soon," he went on. "Madame LeClare's boys. They're out selling their magazines. Fine boys--poor old Jack's boys." His voice dropped. "Who is Jack?" Johnny asked. "What? Didn't I tell you?" The Captain sat up. "But of course I didn't. "They're not Jack's boys any more," he rumbled after a moment. "Poor old Jack is dead. Finest, squarest cop that ever walked a beat. Real name was Jacques--French you know. We called him Jack. "Wish you could have known him, Johnny. You'd have loved him." He stared at the fire. "Fine, big, strapping fellow," he went on after a while. "Six feet two, black hair and bushy eyebrows, like Alice, you know.