He remembered an unboarded path from this side of the town, which entered an inconspicuous little street at the end of which was a barber shop.  It was the barber shop which he must reach first He was glad that it was early in the day when he came to the street an hour later, for he would meet few people.  The street had changed considerably.  Long, open spaces had filled in with houses, and he wondered if the anticipated boom of four years ago had come.  He smiled grimly as the humor of the situation struck him.  His father and he had staked their future in accumulating a lot of “outside” property.  If the boom had materialized, that property was “inside” now—­and worth a great deal.  Before he reached the barber shop he realized that the dream of the Prince Albertites had come true.  Prosperity had advanced upon them in mighty leaps.  The population of the place had trebled.  He was a rich man!  And also, it occurred to him, he was a dead one—­or would be when he reported officially to McDowell.  What a merry scrap there would be among the heirs of John Keith, deceased!

The old shop still clung to its corner, which was valuable as “business footage” now.  But it possessed a new barber.  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.  He had grown a mustache, which was immaculately waxed.  His trousers were immaculately creased, his shoes were shining, and he stood before the door of his now important office resting lightly on a cane.  Keith grinned as he witnessed how prosperity had bolstered up Percival along with the town.  His eyes quested for familiar faces as he went along.  Here and there he saw one, but for the most part he encountered strangers, lively looking men who were hustling as if they had a mission in hand.  Glaring real estate signs greeted him from every place of prominence, and automobiles began to hum up and down the main street that stretched along the river—­twenty where there had been one not so long ago.