Inspector Cameron’s brow wrinkled when the man appeared. If he had ever seen this uncouth fellow before, he could not place him. Surely this was not the Davis he knew. Why this man looked old—a heavy black beard, hair unkempt, disreputable, dirty clothing. But the voice—hah!——Davis after all, the Davis he knew. He extended a hand.
“Heavens, man, how you deceived me. You look terrible. What’s happened? Nothing serious, I hope.”
The visitor dropped into a seat with a sigh of weariness.
“Couldn’t be much worse, inspector. I’ve trekked three hundred miles. Tired. Sleepy. About all in. You see——”
“Yes, Davis. What is it?”
“Smallpox!”
Cameron’s face blanched.
“You don’t say. How bad?”
“Terrible. My country’s rotten with it. Whole villages gone. Mostly among the Indians so far. But the whites are getting it too. Fort Garrison has closed its doors. I saw the red flag of quarantine waving from twenty different cabins on my way here.”
Cameron’s jaws clamped over his cigar and his steel eyes flecked.