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