The first blizzard of the winter descended upon Broncho. At midnight, in the haven of his own den, while the rest of the barracks slept, and the Superintendent sat writing a report, the patient Blythe, in the next room, waited to put his chief to bed.
Trailing a desperate bandit from page to written page, Hector did not hear the gentle knock at the front door.
But it roused him at last. He crossed the room into the passage and opened the door—
Opened it on a woman muffled in furs, covered with snow, whose wild eyes stared over her stole and were shadowed by gleaming hair.
"Mrs. MacFarlane!"
Trained as he was to stern self-control, he could not quite hide his surprise.
"Let me come in! Let me come in!" she gasped.
Seeing that something was wrong, he suppressed a desire to ask questions, stood aside and shut the door.
She swayed in the passage.
"Can you walk?" he asked.