The doctor had now finished rubbing his hands, and, unbuttoning his under coat, he drew a small silver cigarette case from his waistcoat pocket.

“They’re not poison,” he smiled, opening it and offering the cigarettes to Philip.  “I have them made especially for myself.”  A sound outside the door made him pause with a lighted match between his fingers.  “How about dogs and Indian?” he asked.  “May they come in?”

Philip began hobbling toward the door.

“So exciting to meet a man from home that I forgot all about ’em,” he exclaimed.

With three or four quick steps the doctor overtook him and caught him by the arm.

“Just a moment,” he said quickly.  “How far is Fort Smith from here?”

“About sixty miles.”

“Do you suppose I could get there without—­his assistance?”

“If you’re willing to bunk here for a few days—­yes,” said Philip.  “I’m going on to Fort Smith myself as soon as I am able to walk.”

An expression of deep relief came into the doctor’s eyes.

“That’s just what I want, Steele,” he exclaimed, unfeignedly delighted at Philip’s suggestion.  “I’m not well, and I require a little rest.  Call him in.”

No sooner had the Indian entered than to Philip’s astonishment the little doctor began talking rapidly to him in Cree.  The guide’s eyes lighted up intelligently, and at the end he replied with a single word, nodded, and grinned.  Philip noticed that as he talked a slight flush gathered in the doctor’s smooth cheeks, and that not only by his voice but by the use of his hands as well he seemed anxious to impress upon his listener the importance of what he was saying.

“He’ll start back for Chippewayan this afternoon,” he explained to Philip a moment later.  “The dogs and sledge are mine, and he says that he can make it easily on snow-shoes.”  Then he lighted his cigarette and added suggestively, “He can’t understand English.”

The Indian had caught a glimpse of Philip’s belt and holster, and now muttered a few low words, as though he were grumbling at the stove.  The doctor poised his cigarette midway to his lips and looked quickly across at Philip.

“Possibly you belong to the Northwest Mounted Police,” he suggested.

“Yes.”

“Heavens,” drawled the doctor again, “and you the son of a millionaire banker!  What you doing it for?”

“Fun,” answered Philip, half laughing.  “And I’m not getting it in sugar-coated pellet form either.  Doctor.  I came up here to get a man, found him, and was gloriously walloped for my trouble.  I’m not particularly sorry, either.  Rather glad he got away.”

“Why?” asked the doctor.

In spite of their short acquaintance Philip began to feel a sort of comradeship for the man opposite him.

“Well,” he said hesitatingly, “you see, he was one of those criminals who are made criminals.  Some one else was responsible—­a case of one man suffering because of another man’s sins.”