For a little time Bracknell did not speak, then he glanced down towards his leg, and asked, “Is it very bad?”
“It veel knit together like ze ice on ze river!” was the reply. “An’ you veel not be lame mans. No! But two months veel pass before you take ze trail again.”
“Two months. The ice will be breaking up by then.”
“Oui! dat so! But what matter? Time it ees long in ze North, an’ we can talk together. Where did the trail lead for you, m’sieu?”
“I was making for North Star Lodge in the first instance. There, I hoped to get dogs to take me to the police post.”
Chief Louis did not speak for a little time. He lit an Indian pipe made of some soft stone with a hollowed twig for stem, pulled thoughtfully at it a few times, blowing out clouds of acrid smoke, then he said slowly, “You were going to North Star? You ever know Missi Gargrave’s father?”
“No!” answered the policeman. “He was dead before I came so far North. I understand that he was caught in the ice in the Yukon—and lost. The bottom dropped out of the trail or something.”
“Him die, oui,” was the brief reply.
Something in the other’s tone caught the policeman’s attention. He looked at him quickly. The half-breed’s face was like that of a wooden image, but there was a glitter in the eyes that betrayed an excitement which the mask-like visage concealed.