racks, of the stables, of the prisoners. There were complaints to listen to from one and rebukes to be administered to another. There was a consultation with Poley concerning the amount of food consumed in the cells and in the mess-room; there were orders to give to Kennedy and to Dick. And there were the dull hours of clerical work; checking accounts, formulating reports; examining receipts and bills from the Hudson Bay on orders drawn in favour of some Indian perhaps six months back and six hundred miles away. These latter often necessitated the turning up of old diaries and note-books, and usually Tempest called in Dick to aid him here.
But he could not bear those keen eyes and that assertive presence to-day. He sent Dick out to investigate the complaint of a settler who had missed two sacks of oats from his barn, and he ground his way through his labours alone, with Kennedy doing his prisoner-patrol in the back-yard, and Poley whistling unmusically as he clumsily handled his pans and kettles in the kitchen.
Poley was of the breed of whom it is said that they "come from the Devil knows where, and are bound for the same place." Some under-tug of his life had beached him to Grey Wolf, and a curious grumbling love for Tempest had kept him there. He rolled up the passage now, and hammered on Tempest's door with his foot, his hands being otherwise occupied. Tempest halted his pen on a long column of figures to bid him enter, and Poley appeared, balancing a bowl of steaming soup on a square lump of bread. He had not treated Tempest with added deference since his promotion because, having predicted it for so long, he naturally took much of the credit of its occurrence to himself.
"Ye had no supper las' night," he said, and put the bowl down on the table. "Ner yer didn't sleep any, I guess. Where are yer at, Inspector? That sort o' game kin put a man away quicker'n anything. Now, you go right ahead an' git outsider that, for I'll bet yer breakfus' ain't lef yer wi' much to yer."
Tempest looked up at the red, rough old face, and the rheumy blue eyes. A long, lonely life had not soured the milk of human kindness in Poley, and this knowledge hap-
