Over his final paragraph, which was headed "Suggestions," according to the form followed by the Force in official communications, he pondered deeply. Whatever he wrote there, he had reason to believe, would be incorporated into an order soon after passing under Assistant Commissioner Baxter's eyes. On this particular independent command, he was anxious not to make mistakes. Finally he wrote:
"Am not prepared to pass judgment, at this time, on the permanency of Gold. From what I have seen, however, the district sadly needs Dominion policing. Would suggest that you send at your earliest convenience one (1) sergeant and two (2) constables, mounted and with suitable camp equipment. As I may be working under cover on this second, unsolved murder, please instruct the sergeant to make camp on his own responsibility and act accordingly until he hears from me. Tell him to disregard reports of my demise as unfounded and——"
A strident "Come in!" evidently in answer to a knock he had not heard, sounded in the adjoining room and caused him to raise his pen from the paper with the sentence incomplete.
"Hello Brewster, glad I found you in."
The shrilled greeting was in an unmistakable voice. Its wording informed Seymour that the agreeable freighter of his morning's acquaintance was his immediate hotel neighbor.
"What can I do for you, Hardley, you honorable strong arm of the law?"
The voice was Brewster's—the same that had remarked the thinness of the tar-paper partitions. They were veritable sounding boards. Seymour could hear every word.
"Wanted to ask your advice, Phil, about some points in this Mountie's murder."
The genuine sergeant winced involuntarily. It was a very bad joke. He doubted that he ever would become accustomed to Sergeant Seymour spoken of as murdered—done for.
"Shoot," he heard Brewster invite.