Face to face with the stranger, Ambrose was sensible that he had to deal with an uncommon character.  There was something about him, he could not decide what, that distinguished him from every other man of Indian blood that Ambrose had ever met.

He wore a well-fitting suit of blue serge and a show of starched linen, in itself a distinguishing mark up north.  “Quite a swell!” was Ambrose’s inward comment.

“You are Ambrose Doane, I suppose?” he said in English as good as Ambrose’s own.  Ambrose nodded.

“I knew you had dinner with Mr. Gaviller last night,” the man went on, “but as you didn’t drop in on us at the store to-day I supposed you had gone back.  I didn’t expect to find you here.”

He was fluent for one of his color—­too fluent the other man felt.  Ambrose was sizing him up with interest.

It finally came to him what the man’s distinguishing quality was.  It was his open look, an expression almost of benignity, absolutely foreign to the Indian character.  Indians may give their eyes freely to one another, but a white man never sees beneath the glassy surface.

This Indian in look and manner resembled an English country gentleman, much sunburnt; or one of those university-bred East Indian potentates who affect motor-cars and polo ponies.  Oddly enough his candid look affronted Ambrose.  “It isn’t natural,” he told himself.

“I am Gordon Strange, bookkeeper at Fort Enterprise,” the stranger volunteered.

The bookkeeper of a big trading-post is always second in command.  Ambrose understood that he was in the presence of a person of consideration in the country.

“Sit down,” he said.  “Fill up your pipe.”

Strange obeyed.  “We’re supposed to be red-hot rivals in business,” he said with an agreeable laugh.  “But that needn’t prevent, eh?  Funny I should stumble on you like this!  I ride every night after supper—­a man needs a bit of exercise after working all day in the store.  I saw the light of your fire.”

He was too anxious to have it understood that the meeting was accidental.  Ambrose began to suspect that he had ridden out on purpose to see him.

The better men among the natives, such as Tole Grampierre, have a pride of their own; but they never presume to the same footing as the white men.  Strange, however, talked as one gentleman to another.

There was nothing blatant in it; he had a well-bred man’s care for the prejudices of another.  Nevertheless, as they talked on Ambrose began to feel a curious repugnance to his visitor, that made him wary of his own speech.

“Too damn gentlemanly!” he said to himself.

“Why didn’t you come in to see us to-day?” inquired Strange.  “We don’t expect a traveler to give us the go-by.”

“Well,” said Ambrose dryly, “I had an idea that my room would be preferred to my company.”

“Nonsense!” said Strange, laughing.  “We don’t carry our business war as far as that.  Why, we want to show you free-traders what a fine place we have, so we can crow over you a little.  Anyway, you dined with Mr. Gaviller, didn’t you?”