asts that the man did not live who
could forge his name. An astonished whistle broke from his lips as he
read these few lines:

Follow your conscience, whatever you do. Both God and man will reward
you in the end.

Felix MacGregor.

And this was all. There was no date, no word of explanation; even his
own name had been omitted from this second order. He picked up the
envelope which had fallen to the floor and looked at the postmark. It
had been stamped four-thirty. It was after five, an hour later, that he
had received his verbal instructions from MacGregor! The inspector
must have written the note before their interview of the preceding
afternoon--before his repeated injunction of "Whatever happens, bring
back your prisoner!" But this letter was evidently intended as final
instructions since it had been sent so as to reach him at this time.
What did it mean? The question buzzed in Philip's brain, repeated itself
twenty times, fifty times, as he hurried through the gathering darkness
of the semi-polar night toward the log hotel of the place. He was
convinced that there was some hidden motive in the inspector's actions.
What was he to understand?

Suddenly he stopped, a hundred yards from the glimmering lights of the
Little Saskatchewan hotel, and chuckled audibly as he stuffed his pipe.
It flashed upon him now why MacGregor had chosen him instead of an
ordinary service man to bring down the prisoner from Wekusko. MacGregor
knew that he, Philip Steele, college man and man of the world, would
reason out the key to this little puzzle, whereas Sergeant Moody and
others of his type would turn back for explanations. And Inspector
MacGregor, twenty years in the service, and recognized as the shrewdest
man-hunter between the coasts, wished to give no explanation. Philip's
blood tingled with fresh excitement as the tremendous risk which the
inspector himself was running, dawned upon him. Publicity of the note
which he held in his hand would mean the disgrace and retirement even of
Felix MacGregor.

He thrust the letter in his pocket and hurried on. The lights of the
settlement were already agleam. From the edge of the frozen river there
came the sound of a wheezy accordion in a Chinese cafe, and the howling
of a dog, either struck by man or worsted in a fight. Where the more
numerous lights of the one street shone red against the black background
of forest, a drunken half-breed was chanting in half-Cree, half-French,
the