"Ah, well," replied the Superintendent, "I bow to your experience,"
making a brave attempt to meet her mood and declining to note her
unusual excitement.

In the specified five minutes the tea was ready.

"I could quite accept your tea-drinking theory, Mrs. Cameron," said
Inspector Dickson, "if--if, mark you--I should always get such tea as
this. But I don't believe Jerry here would agree."

Jerry, who had just entered, stood waiting explanation.

"Mrs. Cameron has just been upholding the virtue of a good cup of tea,
Jerry, over a hot Scotch after a cold ride. Now what's your unbiased
opinion?"

A slight grin wrinkled the cracks in Jerry's leather-skin face.

"Hot whisky--good for fun--for cold no good. Whisky good for sleep--for
long trail no good."

"Thank you, Jerry," cried Mandy enthusiastically.

"Oh, that's all right, Jerry," said the Inspector, joining in the
general laugh that followed, "but I don't think Miss Moira here would
agree with you in regard to the merits of her national beverage."

"Oh, I am not so sure," cried the young lady, entering into the mood
of the others. "Of course, I am Scotch and naturally stand up for my
country and for its customs, but, to be strictly honest, I remember
hearing my brother say that Scotch was bad training for football."

"Good again!" cried Mandy. "You see, when anything serious is on, the
wisest people cut out the Scotch, as the boys say."

"You are quite right, Mrs. Cameron," said the Superintendent, becoming
grave. "On the long trail and in the bitter cold we drop the Scotch and
bank on tea. As for whisky, the Lord knows it gives the Police enough
trouble in this country. If it were not for the whisky half our work
would be cut out. But tell me, how is Mr. Cameron?" he added, as he
handed back his cup for another supply of tea.

"Done up, or more nearly done up than ever I have seen him, or than I
ever want to see him again." Mandy paused abruptly, handed him his
cup of tea, passed into the pantry and for some moments did not appear
again.

"Oh, it was terrible to see him," said Moira, clasping her hands and
speaking in an eager, excited voice. "He came, poor boy, stumbling
toward the door. He had to leave his horse, you know, some miles away.
Through the window we saw him coming along--and we did not know him--he
staggered as if--as if--actually as if he were drunk." Her laugh was
almost hysterical. "And he could not find the latch--and when we opened