Inside the bungalow it was growing dark as though evening had come. He
dropped on his knees before the pile of dry fuel in the fireplace and
struck a match. For a space the blaze smoldered; then the birch fired
up like oil-soaked tinder, and a yellow flame crackled and roared up
the flue. Keith was sensitive in the matter of smoking other people's
pipes, so he drew out his own and filled it with Brady's tobacco. It
was an English mixture, rich and aromatic, and as the fire burned
brighter and the scent of the tobacco filled the room, he dropped into
Brady's big lounging chair and stretched out his legs with a deep
breath of satisfaction. His thoughts wandered to the clash of the
storm. He would have a place like this out there in the mystery of the
trackless mountains, where the Saskatchewan was born. He would build it
like Brady's place, even to the rain-water tank midway between the roof
and the ground. And after a few years no one would remember that a man
named John Keith had ever lived.
Something brought him suddenly to his feet. It was the ringing of the
telephone. After four years the sound was one that roused with an
uncomfortable jump every nerve in his body.
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