and lewdly-vulgar,
comic and tragic, also many splendid photographs were all jumbled
together on the walls in a shockingly irresponsible fashion. Many of the
pictures were unframed copies cut apparently from art and other journals;
from theatrical and comic papers.

George gazed on them awhile in utterly bewildered astonishment; then,
with a little hopeless ejaculation, swung around to the sergeant who met
his despairing grin with benign composure.

"Whose cot's--"

"'Tis Yorke's," said Slavin simply. It was the first time he had
mentioned that individual's name. He struck a match on the seat of his
pants and standing with his feet apart and hands clasped behind his back
smoked awhile contentedly.

"Saw ye iver th' like av that for divarsiment?" he continued, with a wave
of his pipe at the heterogeneous array, "shtudy thim! an', by an' large
ye have th' man himsilf. He's away on pay-day duty at th' Coalmore mines
west av here--though by token, 'tis Billy Blythe at Banff shud be doin'
ut, 'stead av me havin' tu sind a man from here. He shud be back on
Number Four th' night."

His twinkling orbs under their black smudge of eyebrow appraised the
junior constable with faint, musing interest. "A quare chap is Yorkey,"
he continued gently--shielding a match-flame and puffing with noisy
respiration--"a good polisman--knows th' Criminal Code from A tu Z--eyah!
but mighty quare. I misdoubt how th' tu av yez will get along." He
sighed deeply, muttering half to himself, "I may have tu take
shteps--this time! . . ."

A rather ominous beginning, thought George. But, curbing his natural
curiosity, he resolutely held his peace, awaiting more enlightenment.
This not being forthcoming--his superior having relapsed once more into
taciturn silence--he turned again to Yorke's exhibits with pondering
interest. Sounding far-off and indistinct in the frosty stillness of the
bleak foothills came the faint echoes of a coyote's shrill
"ki-yip-yapping"--again and again, as if endeavouring to convey some
insidious message. George continued to stare at the pictures. Gad! what
a strange fantastic mind the man must have! he mused--what rotten,
erratic desecration to shove pictures indiscriminately together like
that! . . . Lack of space was no excuse. Millet's "Angelus," "Ally
Sloper at the Derby," a splendid lithograph of "The Angel of Pity at the
Well of Cawnpore," Lottie Collins, scantily attired, in her song and
dance "Tara