ed clever one it must be," interrupted Philip
irreverently. "Had you any--any particular reason for supposing me to be
'beauty-proof,' as you call it?" he added coldly.

"I've told you my only reason," said the inspector, leaning over his
desk. "You've seen so many pretty faces, Steele, and you've associated
with them so long that one up here isn't going to turn your head. Now--"

MacGregor hesitated, and laughed. The flush grew deeper in his cheeks,
and he looked again at the photograph.

"I'm going to be frank with you," he went on. "This young woman called
on me yesterday, and within a quarter of an hour--fifteen minutes, mind
you!--she had me going like a fool! Understand? I'm not proof--against
her--and yet I'm growing old in the service and haven't had a love
affair since--a long time ago. I'm going to send you up to the Wekusko
camp, above Le Pas, to bring down a prisoner. The man is her husband,
and he almost killed Hodges, who is chief of construction up there.
The minimum he'll get is ten years, and this woman is moving heaven
and earth to save him. So help me God, Steele, if I was one of the
youngsters, and she came to me as she did yesterday, I believe I'd let
him give me the slip! But it mustn't happen. Understand? It mustn't
happen. We've got to bring that man down, and we've got to give him the
law. Simple thing, isn't it--this bringing a prisoner down from Wekusko!
Any rookie could do it, couldn't he? And yet--"

The inspector paused to light his cigar, which had gone out. Then he
added: "If you'll do this, Steele--and care for it--I'll see that you
get your promotion."

As he finished, he tossed the photograph across the desk. "That's she.
Don't ask me how I got the picture."

A curious thrill shot through Philip as he picked up the bit of
cardboard. It was a wondrously sweet face that looked squarely out of
it into his eyes, a face so youthful, so filled with childish
prettiness that an exclamation of surprise rose to his lips. Under
other circumstances he would have sworn that it was the picture of a
school-girl. He looked up, about to speak, but MacGregor had turned
again to the window, clouds of smoke about his head. He spoke without
turning his head.

"That was taken nearly ten years ago," he said, and Philip knew that he
was making an effort to keep an unnatural break out of his voice. "But
there has been little change--almost none. His name is Thorpe. I will
send you a written order this