Seymour was not surprised to find that he did not think of Mrs. Caswell as a participant in Bart's outlawry. Without protestations of innocence or any oral plea that she had tried in vain to reform the daring rascal, she had acquitted herself of culpability. The weary lines in the face that must have been beautiful not so long ago, the haunted look in her dark eyes, even her superb first effort at denial had won the Mountie's sympathy.
A knock on the canvas door of his room interrupted his study of the local situation. Arising, he unhooked the latch, whereupon the improvised door swung inward of its own weight and the accord of its makeshift hinges.
Disclosed in the frame, filling it perpendicularly but sadly lacking in horizontal proportions, stood a gaunt, miner-clad figure, distinguished by a pair of deep-set eyes which burned like living coals and a shock of white hair which waved its freedom when his slouch hat was removed.
"Will you pardon me, stranger; no intrusion meant." The voice was soft and a smile of utmost benignity came into play. "In the midst of life, we are in death."
"The missionary—Moira O'Malley's father and the uncle of the morning's colorful trailmate!" was Seymour's instant thought; but he gave no sign of the presumed recognition.
"Safe enough statement in this camp to-day," he said to his visitor.
"I'm the sky-pilot of these diggings," the other announced in a pulpit voice that rumbled through the hall.
"Won't you come in, sir?"
The missionary declined with a shake of his head. "I must hasten on my weekly rounds, distributing lessons from the Word. Won't you accept one of these and promise me to read it?" He held out a small tract taken from a handful which he carried.
The sergeant glanced at the title: "What Shall It Profit a Man——" He smiled tolerantly, thinking what a queer yet lovable character his future life's companion had for a parent.