"Oh, yes. Well, excuse me, won't you, Molyneux?"
And Hector, smiling pleasantly, departed.
"The fool!" Welland's lip curled sardonically. "We've got him buffaloed, by God! The poor—blind—fool!"
VI
Late that night Antoine, best and fastest dog-driver in North America, was summoned to Police headquarters with an intimation that he was required for a long and arduous journey. Antoine was not surprised. Surprise was beneath his principles. Besides, he was often employed on special missions by the Police, who knew his inflexible fidelity.
A French-Canadian half-breed was Antoine, a man in his prime, built on the slim lines of a runner, deep-chested, broad-shouldered. Born in a Hudson's Bay post, there was no trail of the North unknown to Antoine, no team he could not handle. To him, a run of one hundred miles a day was next to nothing; and he was as punctual as the sun itself.
Dressed for the trail, parka hood thrown back, dogs and sled outside, Antoine waited patiently in the outer office, smoking his short pipe and spitting reflectively at the stove while the Superintendent, Manitou-pewabic, prepared a despatch in the next room.
Presently he was summoned into the Presence.
Behind the lamp sat the Superintendent, quiet, gigantic—in Antoine's eyes, a god and hero.
"Cold night, Antoine."