ed villagers had witnessed the interview with suspicions
lulled. There had been no despatch delivered, and the man was off
again the way he had come. Surely nothing very significant had taken
place. Possibly, after all, the man was merely a patrol from some
outlying station.

Fyles turned to his lieutenant.

"We're going to get busy," he said, with a shadowy smile.

The older man could not conceal his appreciation.

"Looks that way, sir."

"I'll look over the mail myself," Fyles went on. "You best get back to
camp, and see to that letter. Guess you'll wait for me to take action.
You can get out across the valley south. Ride on west and ford the
river up at the crossing--Winter's Crossing. See if the patrol's in.
Then make camp--and keep an eye skinned for that boy. I'll get along
later."

The sergeant saluted and sprang into the saddle. Fyles passed into the
mail office as the man rode off.

Allan Dy was used to these visits of the inspector. There were very
few country postmasters who were not used to such visits. It was a
process of espionage which was never acknowledged, yet one that was
carried on extensively in suspected districts. There was never any
verbal demand, or acquiescence, in the manner in which it was carried
out. When the police officer appeared the day's mail was usually in
the process of being sorted, and was generally to be found spread out
lying in full view of the searching eyes.

Fyles walked in. Passed the time of day. Collected his own mail and
that of the men under him. Chatted pleasantly with the subservient
official, and started to pass out again. In those brief moments he had
seen all he wanted to see, which on this occasion was little enough.

There were only four letters from the East, The rest were all of local
origin. One of the eastern letters was for O'Brien, and it carried an
insurance firm's superscription. There were two letters for Kate
Seton, both from New York, and both carrying the firm styles of
well-known retail traders in women's clothing. The fourth was
addressed to Charlie Bryant, and bore no trader's imprint.

As he neared the door of the little office he had to stand aside as
Kate Seton made her way in.

Fyles felt that his luck was certainly in. The news he had awaited
with so much impatience had been received at last, and now--well, his
quick appreciative eyes took in the delightfully fresh, wholesome
appearance of this woman, who had made such inroads upo