curious part of it is she seemed to have no interest in the matter at
all until six months ago. Sometimes I am afraid that brooding over her
father's death has unsettled her a little. A mighty pretty girl,
Conniston. A mighty pretty girl, indeed! And her brother is a skunk.
Pst! You haven't forgotten him?"

He drew a chair up close to his own and motioned Keith to be seated.
"You're changed, Conniston!"

The words came out of him like a shot. So unexpected were they that
Keith felt the effect of them in every nerve of his body. He sensed
instantly what McDowell meant. He was NOT like the Englishman; he
lacked his mannerisms, his cool and superior suavity, the inimitable
quality of his nerve and sportsmanship. Even as he met the disquieting
directness of the Inspector's eyes, he could see Conniston sitting in
his place, rolling his mustache between his forefinger and thumb, and
smiling as though he had gone into the north but yesterday and had
returned today. That was what McDowell was missing in him, the soul of
Conniston himself--Conniston, the ne plus ultra of presence and amiable
condescension, the man who could look the Inspector or the High
Commissioner himself between the eyes, and, serenely indifferent to
Service regulations, say, "Fine morning, old top!" Keith was not
without his own sense of humor. How the Englishman's ghost must be
raging if it was in the room at the present moment! He grinned and
shrugged his shoulders.

"Were you ever up there--through the Long Night--alone?" he asked.
"Ever been through six months of living torture with the stars leering
at you and the foxes barking at you all the time, fighting to keep
yourself from going mad? I went through that twice to get John Keith,