“Then,” said the officer decisively, “if the boys down at Regent know enough to remember what trumps are, you’re not Lance Courthorne.  Now, after what I’d heard of you, I’d have put up fifty dollars for the pleasure of watching your game—­and it’s not worth ten cents when I’ve seen it.”

Winston laughed.  “Sit down and talk,” he said.  “One isn’t always in his usual form, and there are folks who get famous too easily.”

They talked until nearly midnight, sitting close to the stove, while a doleful wind that moaned without drove the dust of snow pattering against the windows, and the shadows grew darker in the corners of the great log-walled room each time the icy draughts set the lamp flickering.  Then the officer, rising, expressed the feelings of his guest as he said, “It’s a forsaken country, and I’m thankful one can sleep and forget it.”

He had, however, an honorable calling, and a welcome from friend and kinsman awaiting him when he went East again, to revel in the life of the cities, but the man who followed him silently to the sleeping-room had nothing but a half-instinctive assurance that the future could not well be harder or more lonely than the past had been.  Still, farmer Winston was a man of courage with a quiet belief in himself, and in ten minutes he was fast asleep.

When he came down to breakfast his host was already seated with a bundle of letters before him, and one addressed to Courthorne lay unopened by Winston’s plate.  The officer nodded when he saw him.

“The trooper has come in with the mail, and your friends in Canada are not going to worry you,” he said.  “Now, if you feel like staying here a few days, it would be a favor to me.”

Winston had in the meanwhile opened the envelope.  He knew that when once the decision was made, there could only be peril in half-measures, and his eyes grew thoughtful as he read.  The letter had been written by a Winnipeg lawyer from a little town not very far away, and requested Courthorne to meet and confer with him respecting certain suggestions made by a Colonel Barrington.  Winston decided to take the risk.

“I’m sorry, but I have got to go into Annerly at once,” he said.

“Then,” said the officer, “I’ll drive you.  I’ve some stores to get down there.”

They started after breakfast, but it was dusk next day when they reached the little town, and Winston walked quietly into a private room of the wooden hotel, where a middle-aged man with a shrewd face sat waiting him.  The big nickeled lamp flickered in the draughts that found their way in, and Winston was glad of it, though he was outwardly very collected.  The stubborn patience and self-control with which he had faced the loss of his wheat crops and frozen stock stood him in good stead now.  He fancied the lawyer seemed a trifle astonished at his appearance, and sat down wondering whether he had previously spoken to Courthorne, until the question was answered for him.