“Well, the last person I spoke to, before I left North Star to come to England, was Roger Bracknell!”
“Roger Bracknell!” echoed her hostess in surprise.
“Yes, he is in the Mounted Police, and, in the way of duty, he came to North Star, three days or so before I left.”
“That is an odd coincidence,” was the comment. “What did you think of him, my dear?”
Joy answered with reserve. “He seemed to be very nice—a gentleman, you know.”
Her hostess smiled. “Yes, Roger is that—the right sort, as my husband would say. He, at any rate, will never disgrace the Bracknell clan, for he is at the opposite pole from his cousin Dick. What did he look like?”
“Like a mounter!” answered Joy quickly.
“A mounter! Don’t talk slang, Joy. Interpret, please.”
“Well,” answered Joy smilingly, “a mounter is a member of the Royal North West Mounted Police, who are as fine a body of men as you may find from one end of the Empire to the other.”
“And therefore Roger Bracknell is a fine man, hey?”