He was alone. Keith gave
his instructions in definite detail and showed him Conniston's
photograph in his identification book. The beard and mustache must be
just so, very smart, decidedly English, and of military neatness, his
hair cut not too short and brushed smoothly back. When the operation
was over, he congratulated the barber and himself. Bronzed to the color
of an Indian by wind and smoke, straight as an arrow, his muscles
swelling with the brute strength of the wilderness, he smiled at
himself in the mirror when he compared the old John Keith with this new
Derwent Conniston! Before he went out he tightened his belt a notch.
Then he headed straight for the barracks of His Majesty's Royal
Northwest Mounted Police.
His way took him up the main street, past the rows of shops that had
been there four years ago, past the Saskatchewan Hotel and the little
Board of Trade building which, like the old barber shop, still hung to
its original perch at the edge of the high bank which ran precipitously
down to the river. And there, as sure as fate, was Percival Clary, the
little English Secretary! But what a different Percy!
He had broadened out and straightened up.
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