The hunt for Harry Karmack, embezzler of the funds of the Arctic Trading Company, Ltd., of course, had not been given up. This was Seymour's "special"—and would be until the fugitive was apprehended, as is the way of the Royal Mounted. Even a report brought to Fort McMurray by a wandering Chipewyan that the factor's body had been found frozen at the foot of Ptarmigan Bluffs had not halted the search an hour. The Indian's story was too "pat"; the last lost-in-blizzard note signed "Karmack" too obvious a plant.
A blizzard there had been, to be sure, a stem-winder. Just in time to escape the white scourge howling South, Seymour had mushed into Wolf Creek Station with his precious invalid. But he could not believe that the Armistice factor had permitted himself to be caught in the storm. Too long had Karmack been in the North to meet any such tenderfoot fate. An old trick, that of reporting one's self dead by freezing. The thief might have saved himself the expense of hiring the Indian to bring in the "death notice," for all it was believed.
This blizzard had held Seymour at Wolf for three endless weeks. There had been just one recompense. At the end of that period the mission surgeon had pronounced Moira sufficiently recovered to continue her trip by dog team. The weather had favored them and eventually they had found themselves in Athabaska, end-of-steel! The trains of the Canadian National and the Grand Trunk Pacific had carried them to Ottawa, the girl to a welcome in the home of friends, the sergeant to report at headquarters.
After a conference with the commissioner, Seymour had stepped out of uniform and into plain clothes. The still-hunt then begun had continued for three months, leading first to Quebec whence Karmack had originally hailed. There the sergeant had obtained information which confirmed his disbelief of the lost-in-blizzard note. Karmack had paid a stealthy visit to his old home and departed. Rumor had it that he had gone to the States. Therefore, Seymour did not cross the border to look for him. Knowing the man and his inclinations, the sergeant's hunch was Montreal. From a rented room on City Councillor Street, midway between the French and Up-town quarters of the city, he had played his hunch industriously, but so far without result. He had kept away from the mounted police headquarters on Sherbrooke West and not once had he been taken for what he was, even by fellow members of the Force.
He was growing tired of the city's confinement, but not discouraged. One day he would meet his man, know him no matter what his disguise.
This was to be a night off, the first he had taken since getting back to civilization. It was to be a gala, reunion night; and it was beginning, for the Ottawa express had just ground to a stop in the shed outside the high iron grill.
His pulse beat quicker as he scanned the in-comers—first the smoking-car compliment, then the day-coach passengers and, at last the Pullman elect. Then he saw her, coming with the poise of a queen, a small black bag in her hand. Neatly he hurdled the brass barrier and at the very gate he took her into his arms and kissed her.
"Moira, Moira! You're a glad sight for tired eyes," he murmured.
"But not here, Sergeant Scarlet; not here with the world looking on," she whispered in pretended protest.
He did not care how much of the world saw, for between them an understanding for life had been reached on the trail.