Corporal Bracknell shouted to him, and the man turned round and peered into the darkness, then he rested something against the wooden wall of the passage, shut the door, and moved towards the policeman.
“Who are you?” he asked, as he came nearer.
“Corporal Bracknell—on Dominion service,” replied the policeman.
“Corporal Bracknell?”
As the man echoed the words the corporal caught a puzzled note in his tones, and explained further.
“Yes, of the Mounted Police.”
“Oh, of course! I was not thinking of the Mounted service. I am a stranger in the Nor’-West—” Bracknell had already divined that such must be the case, but he did not say so. He laughed lightly, and made his wants known.
“I’m on service, and tired. I should be grateful for supper and a bunk if that is possible.”
“It is quite possible, Officer, and Joy—I mean Miss Gargrave will be very glad to oblige you. She is always pleased to play the Good Samaritan.”
As the man spoke the name, the corporal remembered that he had heard it before. It had been borne by an eccentric Englishman, who had been reported enormously wealthy and who had perished rather tragically on the Klondyke, three years before, and the mystery of whose death had never been cleared up, satisfactorily. He knew now where he was.