Stonor was a brave man, but a chill struck to his breast.

"I kill him?" said the woman. "Why have I got to do all the dirty work?"

"What do you care? You've already tried twice."

"Why don't you kill him yourself?"

"I'm not afraid of him."

"Maybe not. With his hands tied."

Imbrie's fist clenched. "Do you want me to beat you?"

The woman shrugged.

"You know very well why I don't want to do it," Imbrie went on. "It's nothing to you if the girl hates you."

"Oh, that's why, eh? You're scared she'd turn from bloody hands! She's made a fool of you, all right!"

"Never mind that. You do it to-morrow."

"Why not to-night?"

"I won't have it done in her sight. To-morrow morning when we spell you make some excuse to take him into the bush. There you shoot him or stick a knife in his back. I don't care so long as you make a job of it. You come back alone and make a story of how he tried to run away, see? Then I'll beat you——"

"Beat me!" she cried indignantly.

"Fool! I won't hurt you. I'll just act rough to you for a while, till she gets better."

"That girl has made me plenty trouble these last two years. I wish I'd never set eyes on her!"

"Forget it! Tie his feet together so he can't wander and go to bed now!"

* * * * *

Mary Moosa's little mosquito-tent was still in Imbrie's outfit, but the woman preferred to roll up in her blanket by the fire like a man. Soon the two of them were sleeping as calmly as two children, and Stonor was left to his own thoughts.

* * * * *

It was a silent quartette that took to the river next day. Imbrie was sulky; it appeared that he no longer found any relish in gibing at Stonor. Clare was pale and downcast. After an hour or so they came to the rapids where Stonor had intercepted Imbrie and Clare, and thereafter the river was new to them. Stonor gathered from their talk that the river was new, too, to Imbrie and the woman, but that they had received information as to its course from Kakisa sources.

For many miles after that the current ran smooth and slow, and they paddled the dug-out; Stonor in the bow, Imbrie guarding him with the gun, Clare behind Imbrie, and the breed woman with the stern-paddle. All with their backs to each other and all silent. About ten o'clock they came to the mouth of a little creek coming in at the left, and here Imbrie indicated they would spell.

"So this is the spot designed for my murder," thought Stonor, looking over the ground with a natural interest.

The little brook was deep and sluggish; its surface was powdered with tiny lilies and, at its edges, long grass trailed in the water. A clean, grassy bank sloped up gradually. Further back were white-stemmed aspen-trees gradually thickening into the forest proper.

"Ideal place for a picnic," thought Stonor grimly. As they went ashore he perceived that the breed woman was somewhat agitated. She continually wiped her forehead on her sleeve. This was somehow more reassuring than her usual inhuman stolidity. Imbrie clearly was anxious, too, but not about Stonor or what was going to happen to him. His eyes continually sought Clare's face.

The breed woman glanced inquiringly at Imbrie. He said in the Indian tongue: "We'll eat first."

"So I have an hour's respite," thought Stonor.

None of them displayed much appetite. Stonor forced himself to eat. Imbrie glanced at him oddly from time to time. "He's sorry to see good food wasted," thought the trooper. "Well, it won't be, if I can help it!"

When they had finished the woman said in English with a very careless air: "I'm going to see if I can get some fresh meat."

"She means me," thought Stonor.

She got her gun and departed. Stonor was aware likewise of the knife sticking out of the top of her moccasin. Both Imbrie and the woman had a self-conscious air. A child could have seen that something was afoot. The woman walked off through the grass and was presently lost among the trees.

Imbrie commanded Stonor to wash the dishes.

Stonor reflected that since they meant to kill him anyhow if they could, there was nothing to be gained by putting up with further indignities.

"Wash them yourself," he said coolly.

Imbrie shrugged, but said no more.

Pretty soon they heard a shot at no great distance.

Stonor thought: "Now she'll come back and say she's got a bear or a moose, and they'll order me to go back with her and bring in the meat. Shall I go, or shall I refuse to go? If I refuse they're almost sure to suspect that I understand their lingo; but if I go I may be able to disarm her. I'll go."

Presently they saw her returning. "I've got a moose," she said stolidly.

Stonor smiled a grim inward smile. It was too simple to ask him to believe that she had walked into the bush and brought down a moose within five minutes with one shot. He knew very well that if there was a feast in prospect her face would be wreathed in smiles. He was careful to betray nothing in his own face.

Imbrie was a better actor. "Good work!" he cried. "Now we'll have something fit to eat."

She said: "I want help to bring in the meat."

"Stonor, go help her," said Imbrie carelessly.

The trooper got up with an indifferent air.

"Martin, don't go!" Clare said involuntarily.

"I'm not afraid of her," Stonor said.

The woman forced him to walk in advance of her across the grass. The thought of her behind him with the gun ready made Stonor's skin prickle uncomfortably, but he reflected that she would certainly not shoot until they were hidden in the bush.

* * * * *

When they reached the edge of the bush he stopped and looked at her. "Which way?" he asked, with an innocent air.

"You can follow the tracks, can't you?" said she.

He saw that she was pale and perspiring freely. She moistened her lips before she spoke.

Half a dozen paces further on he stopped again.

"Go on!" she said harshly.

"Got to tie my moccasin," he said, dropping on one knee and turning half round, so that he could keep an eye on her. She gave a swift glance over her shoulder. They were not yet fully out of sight of the others.

"Your moccasin is not untied," she said suddenly.

At the same moment Stonor, still crouching, sprang at her, taking care to keep under the gun. Grasping her knees, he flung her to the ground. He got the gun, but before he could raise it, she sprang at him from all fours like a cat, and clung to him with a passionate fury no man could have been capable of. Stonor was unable to shake her off without dropping the gun. Meanwhile she screamed for aid.

Both Imbrie and Clare came running. Imbrie, circling round the struggling pair, clubbed his gun and brought it down on Stonor's head. The trooper went to earth. He did not altogether lose consciousness. The woman, maddened, recovered her gun, and was for dispatching him on the spot, but Imbrie, thinking of Clare, prevented her.

Stonor was soon able to rise, and to make his way back, albeit somewhat groggily, to the creek. Clare wished to support him, but he stopped her with a look.

When they got back to their camp Imbrie demanded with seeming indignation: "What was the matter with you? What did you expect to gain by jumping on her?"

"What did she take me into the bush for?" countered Stonor. "To put a bullet through me?"

Imbrie made a great parade of surprise. "What makes you think that?"

"She's tried twice already, hasn't she? I saw it in her eye. She saw it, too——" pointing to Clare. "You heard her warn me. She never shot a moose. That was too simple a trick."

"I did shoot a moose," said the woman sullenly.

"Then why don't you bring some of it in and let's see it. You have your knife to cut off as much as we can carry."

She turned away with a discomposed face.

"Oh, well, if you won't take the trouble to bring in the meat we'll go without it," said Imbrie quickly. Stonor laughed.

As they were making ready to start Stonor heard Imbrie say bitterly to the woman, in their own tongue: "You made a pretty mess of that!"

"Well, do it yourself, then," she snarled back.

"Very well, I will. When I see a good chance."

"This is only the 25th," thought Stonor. "By hook or by crook I must contrive to keep alive a couple of days longer."

Above this camping-place the character of the river changed again. The banks became steep and stony, and the rapids succeeded each other with only a few hundred yards of smooth water between. Stonor became a fixture in the tracking-line. He worked with a right good will, hoping to make himself so useful that they would not feel inclined to get rid of him. It was a slim chance, but the best that offered at the moment. Moreover, every mile that he put behind him brought him so much nearer succour.

That night in camp he had the satisfaction of hearing Imbrie say in answer to a question from the woman:

"No, not to-night. All day he's been working like a slave to try and get on the good side of me. Well, let him work. I've no mind to break my back while I have him to work for me. According to the Kakisas we'll have rapids now for a long way up. Let him pull us."

So Stonor could allow himself to sleep with an easy mind for that night, anyway.

The next two days were without special incident. Stonor lived from moment to moment, his fate hanging on Imbrie's savage and irresponsible impulses. Fortunately for him, he was still able to inform himself from the talk of the two. Each day they broke camp, tracked up-stream, tracked and poled up the rapids, spelled and tracked again. In the rapids it was the breed woman who had to help Stonor. Imbrie would stand by smoking, with his gun over his arm. Stonor wondered at the woman's patience.

At the end of the second day they found another soft sandy beach to camp on. Stonor was so weary he could scarcely remain awake long enough to eat. They all turned in immediately afterwards. Latterly Imbrie had been forcing Stonor to lie close to him at night, and the end of the line that bound Stonor's wrists was tied around Imbrie's arm. The breed woman lay on the other side of the fire, and Clare's tent was pitched beyond her.

Stonor was awakened by a soft touch on his cheek. Having his nerves under good control, he gave no start. Opening his eyes, he saw Clare's face smiling adorably, not a foot from his own. At first he thought he was dreaming, and lay scarcely daring to breathe, for fear of dissipating the charming phantom.

But the phantom spoke: "Martin, you looked so tired to-night it made me cry. I could not sleep. I had to come and speak to you. Did I do wrong?"

He feasted his tired eyes on her. How could he blame her? "Dangerous," he whispered. "These breeds sleep like cats."

"What's the difference? It's as bad as it can be already."

He shook his head. "They have not ill-treated you."

"I wouldn't mind if they did. It is terrible to see you work so hard, while I do nothing. Why do you work so hard for them?"

"I have hope of meeting help up the river."

She smiled incredulously. Stonor, seeing her resigned to the worst, said no more about his hopes. After all they might fail, and it would be better not to raise her hopes only to dash them.

"Better go," he urged. "Every little while through the night one or the other of these breeds wakes, sits up, looks around, and goes back to sleep again."

"Are you glad I came, Martin?"

"Very glad. Go back to your tent, and we'll talk in fancy until we fall asleep again."

* * * * *

Stonor was awakened the next time by a loud, jeering laugh. It was full daylight. The breed woman was standing at his feet, pointing mockingly to the tell-tale print of Clare's little body in the sand beside him. A blinding rage filled Stonor at the implication of that coarse laugh—but he was helpless. Imbrie started up, and Stonor attempted to roll over on the depression—but Imbrie saw it, saw also the little tracks leading around behind the sleepers to Clare's tent.

No sound escaped from Imbrie, but his smooth face turned hideous with rage; the lips everted over the clenched teeth, the ruddy skin livid and blotchy. He quickly untied the bond between him and Stonor. The woman, with a wicked smile, drew the knife out of her moccasin, and offered it to him. He eagerly snatched it up. Stonor's eyes were fixed unflinchingly on his face. He thought: "It has come!"

But at that moment Clare came out of her tent. Imbrie hid the knife and turned away. As he passed the breed woman Stonor heard him mutter:

"I'll fix him to-night!"

* * * * *

That day as he trod the shore, bent under the tracking-line, Stonor had plenty to occupy his mind. Over and over he made his calculations of time and distance:

"This is the twenty-seventh. It was the fifteenth when I sent Tole Grampierre back to Enterprise. If he rode hard he'd get there about noon on the seventeenth. The steamboat isn't due to start up-stream until the twentieth, but Gaviller would surely let her go at once when he got my message. She'd only need to get wood aboard and steam up. She could steam night and day too, at this stage of water; she's done it before—that is, if they had anybody to relieve Mathews at the engine. There are plenty of pilots. Surely Gaviller would order her to steam night and day when he read my letter! Even suppose they didn't get away until the morning of the eighteenth: that would bring them to the Crossing by the twenty-second.

"Lambert, I know, would not lose an hour in setting out over the prairie—just long enough to get horses together and swim them across. I can depend on him. Nobody knows how far it is overland from the Crossing to the Swan River. Nobody's been that way. But the chances are it's prairie land, and easy going. Say the rivers are about the same distance apart up there, Lambert ought to reach the Swan on the twenty-fifth, or at the latest the twenty-sixth. That's only yesterday. But we must have made two hundred or two hundred and fifty miles up-stream. The Swan certainly makes a straighter course than the Spirit. It must be less than a hundred miles from here to the spot where Lambert would hit this stream. He could make seventy-five miles or more a day down-stream. He would work. If everything has gone well I might meet him to-day.

"But things never go just the way you want them to. I must not count on it. Gaviller may have delayed. He's so careful of his precious steamboat. Or she may have run on a bar. Or Lambert may have met unexpected difficulties. I must know what I'm going to do. Once my hands are tied to-night my goose is cooked. Shall I resist the woman when she tries to tie my hands? But Imbrie always stands beside her with the gun; that would simply mean being shot down before Clare's eyes. Shall I let them bind me and take what comes?—No! I must put up a fight somehow! Suppose I make a break for it as soon as we land? If there happens to be cover I may get away with it. Better be shot on the wing than sitting down with my hands tied. And if I got clean away, Clare would know there was still a chance. I'll make a break for it!"

He looked at the sky, the shining river and the shapely trees. "This may be my last day on the old ball! Good old world too! You don't think what it means until the time comes to say ta-ta to it all; sunny mornings, and starry nights, with the double trail of the Milky Way moseying across the sky. I've scarcely tasted life yet—mustn't think of that! Twenty-seven years old, and nothing done! If I could feel that I had left something solid behind me it would be easier to go."

Pictures of his boyhood in the old Canadian city presented themselves unasked; the maple-foliage, incredibly dense and verdant, the shabby, comfortable houses behind the trees, and the homely, happy-go-lucky people who lived in the houses and sprayed their lawns on summer evenings; friendly people, like people everywhere prone to laughter and averse to thought. "People are so foolish and likeable, it's amazing!" thought Stonor, visualizing his kind for the first.

The sights and sounds and smells of the old town came thronging back; the school-bell with its flat clangour, exactly like no other bell on earth—it rang until five minutes before the hour, stopping with a muttering complaint, and you ran the rest of the way. There was the Dominion Hotel, with a tar pavement in front that became semi-liquid on hot days; no resident of that town ever forgot the pungent smell compounded of tar, stale beer, sawdust, and cabbage that greeted you in passing. And the candy-store was next door; the butterscotch they sold there!

How he used to get up early on summer mornings and, with his faithful mongrel Jack, with the ridiculous curly tail, walk and run a mile to the railway-station to see the Transcontinental stop and pass on. How the sun shone down the empty streets before any one was up! Strange how his whole life seemed to be coloured by the newly-risen sun! And the long train with the mysterious, luxurious sleeping-cars, an occasional tousled head at the window; lucky head, bound on a long journey!

"Well, I've journeyed some myself since then," thought Stonor, "and I have a longer journey before me!"

They spelled at ten o'clock, and again at three. "The last lap!" thought Stonor, as they took to the river after the second stop. All depended on the spot Imbrie should choose for their next camp. Stonor studied the nature of the ground anxiously. The banks continued to rise steep and high almost from the water's edge. These slopes for the most part were wooded, but a wood on a steep stony slope does not offer good cover.

"Small chance of scrambling over the top in such a place without stopping a bullet," thought Stonor. "If we come to a more favourable spot should I suggest camping? No! for Imbrie would be sure to keep on out of pure obstinacy. I might have a chance if I zig-zagged up the hill. The worst part will be running away from Clare. Suppose she cries out or tries to follow. If I could warn her!"

But Imbrie was taking very good care that no communications passed between the two to-day.

They came to a place where a limestone ridge made a rapid wilder than any they had passed on the upper river, almost a cataract. Much time was consumed in dragging the dug-out over the shelves of rock alongside. The ridge made a sort of dam in the river; and above there was a long reach, smooth and sluggish. Imbrie ordered Stonor aboard to paddle, and the trooper was not sorry for the change of exercise.

The sun was dropping low now, and Stonor little by little gave up hope of meeting help that day. In the course of the smooth reach they came upon an island, quaintly shaped like a woman's hat, with a stony beach all round for a brim, a high green crown, and a clump of pines for an aigrette. In its greatest diameter it was less than a hundred feet.

Coming abreast of the island, Imbrie, without saying anything in advance of his intention, steered the dug-out so that she grounded on the beach. The others looked round at him in surprise.

"We'll camp here," he said curtly.

Stonor's heart sank. An island! "It's early yet," he said, with a careless air.

"The dug-out's leaking," said Imbrie. "I want to fix her before dark."

"There's no gum on the island."

"I have it with me."

Imbrie said this with a meaning grin, and Stonor could not be sure but that the man suspected his design of escaping. There was nothing for it but to submit for the moment. If they attempted to bind him he would put up the best fight he could. If they left him free until dark he might still escape by swimming.

They landed. The breed woman, as a matter of course, prepared to do all the work, while Imbrie sat down with his pipe and his gun. He ordered Stonor to sit near. The policeman obeyed, keeping himself on the qui vive for the first hostile move. Clare, merely to be doing something, put up her own little tent. The breed woman started preparing supper, and then, taking everything out of the dug-out, pulled it up on the stones, and turning it over applied the gum to the little crack that had opened in the bottom.

They supped as usual, Stonor being guarded by the woman while Imbrie ate. Stonor and Clare were kept at a little distance from each other. There was nothing that they cared to say to each other within hearing of their jailors. Soon afterwards Clare went to her tent. Stonor watched her disappear with a gripping pain at his heart, wondering if he would ever see her again. "She might have looked her good-night," he thought resentfully, even while better sense told him she had refrained from looking at him only because such indications of an understanding always infuriated Imbrie.

The dusk was beginning to gather. Imbrie waited a little while, then said carelessly:

"Tie him up now."

The woman went to get the piece of line she used for the purpose. Stonor got warily to his feet.

"What do you want to tie me up for?" he said, seeking to gain time. "I'm helpless without weapons. You might let me have one night's comfortable sleep. I work hard enough for it."

Imbrie's suspicions were instantly aroused by this changed attitude of Stonor's, who had always before indifferently submitted. He raised the gun threateningly. "Shut up!" he said. "Hold your hands behind you."

The woman was approaching with the line. Stonor moved so as to bring himself in a line between Imbrie and the woman. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Clare at the door of her tent, anxiously watching. He counted on the fact that Imbrie would not shoot while she was looking on without strong provocation. They were all down on the stony beach. Stonor kept edging closer to the water.

Stonor still sought to parley. "What are you afraid of? You're both armed. What could I do? And you sleep like cats. I couldn't move hand or foot without waking you. I can't work all day, and sleep without being able to stretch myself."

While he talked he manoeuvred to keep himself between Imbrie and the woman. Imbrie, to avoid the danger of hitting her, was obliged to keep circling round Stonor. Finally Stonor got him between him and the water. This was the moment he was waiting for. His muscles were braced like steel springs. Plunging at Imbrie, he got under the gun-barrel and bore the man back into the river. The gun was discharged harmlessly into the air. The beach sloped away sharply, and the force of his rush carried them both into three feet of water. They went under. Imbrie dropped his gun, and clung to Stonor with the desperate, instinctive grip of the non-swimmer. Like a ray of light the thought flashed through Stonor's brain: "I have him on equal terms now!"

As they went under he was aware of the woman rushing into the water after him with the knife raised. He twisted his body so that Imbrie came uppermost and she was unable to strike. Stonor saw Clare running to the water's edge.

"Get her gun!" he cried.

Clare swerved to where it stood leaning against the overturned dug-out. The woman turned back, but Clare secured the gun before she was out of the water, and dashed into the thick bushes with it. Meanwhile Stonor dragged the struggling Imbrie into deeper water. They lost their footing and went under again. The woman, after a pause of agonized indecision, ran to the dug-out, and, righting it, pushed it into the water.

Stonor, striking out as he could, carried his burden out beyond a man's depth. The current carried them slowly down. They were as much under the water as on top, but Stonor cannily held his breath, while Imbrie struggled insanely. Stonor, with his knee against the other's chest, broke his strangle-hold, and got him turned over on his back. Imbrie's struggles began to weaken.

Meanwhile the dug-out was bearing down on them. Stonor waited until it came abreast and the woman swung her paddle to strike. Then letting go of Imbrie, he sank, and swimming under water, rose to the surface some yards distant. He saw that the woman had Imbrie by the hair. In this position it was impossible for her to wield her paddle, and the current was carrying her down. Stonor turned about and swam blithely back to the island.

Clare, still carrying the gun, came out of the bushes to meet him. They clasped hands.

"I knew there was only one bullet," she said. "I was afraid to fire at the woman for fear of missing her."

"You did right," he said.

Stonor found the gun that Imbrie had dropped in the water. From the beach they watched to see what the breed woman would do.

"When she gets near the rapids she'll either have to let go Imbrie or be carried over," Stonor said grimly.

But the woman proved to be not without her resources. Still with one hand clutched in Imbrie's hair, she contrived to wriggle out of the upper part of her dress. Out of this she made a sling, passing it under the unconscious man's arms, and tying it to the thwart of the dug-out. She then paddled ashore and dragged the man out on the beach. There they saw her stand looking at him helplessly. Save for the dug-out she was absolutely empty-handed, without so much as a match to start a fire with.

Presently she loaded the inert body in the dug-out, and, getting in herself, came paddling back towards the island. Stonor grimly awaited her, with the gun over his arm. The dusk was thickening, and Clare built up the fire.

When she came near, Stonor said, raising the gun: "Come no closer till I give you leave."

She raised her hands. "I give up," she said apathetically. "I've got to have fire for him, blankets. Maybe he is dead."

"He's only half-drowned," said Stonor. "I can bring him to if you do what I tell you."

"What do you want?"

"Throw your ammunition-belt ashore, then your knife, and the two knives that Imbrie carries in his belt."

She obeyed. Stonor gratefully buckled on the belt. She landed, and permitted her hands to be bound. Stonor then pulled the dug-out out on the stones, and turning it over rolled Imbrie on the bottom of it until he got most of the water out of him. Then, laying him on his back, after half an hour's unremitting work, he succeeded in inducing respiration. A little colour returned to Imbrie's face, and in the end he opened his eyes and looked stupidly around him. At these signs of returning animation the enigma of a woman suddenly lowered her head and broke into a dry hard sobbing.

So intent were they upon the matter in hand they never thought of looking out on the river. It was as dark now as it would be, and anyway the glow of the fire blinded them to what lay outside its radius. Suddenly out of the murk came with stunning effect a deep-throated hail:

"Stonor, is that you?"

The policeman straightened like a man who received an electric shock. A great light broke in his face.

"Lambert! Thank God!" he cried.

Two clumsy little pot-bellied collapsible boats grounded on the stones below their fire and, as it seemed to their confused senses, they were immediately surrounded by a whole crowd of friendly faces. Stonor was aware, not of one red coat, but of three, and two natives besides. The rubicund face of his commanding officer, Major Egerton, "Patch-pants" Egerton, the best-loved man in the North, swam before his eyes. Somehow or other he contrived to salute.

"I have the honour to turn over two prisoners, sir. This man who claims to be Doctor Ernest Imbrie, and this woman, name unknown to me."

"Good work, Sergeant!" Having returned his salute, the little Major unbent, and offered Stonor his hand.

"This is a surprise, sir, to see you," said the latter.

"I had just got to the Crossing on my rounds when your note came to Lambert. So I came right on with him." Major Egerton's glance took in Stonor's bandaged skull and dripping clothes, the woman's bound hands, and Imbrie just returning to consciousness. "I judge you've been having a strenuous time," he remarked drily.

"Somewhat, sir."

"You shall tell me all about it, when we've settled down a bit. We had already camped for the night, when we saw the reflection of your fire, and came down to investigate. Introduce me to the lady."

The little Major bowed to Clare in his best style. His face betrayed no consciousness of the strangeness of the situation, in that while Dr. Imbrie was a prisoner, Mrs. Imbrie was obviously under Stonor's protection. He engaged her in conversation about the weather as if they had just met at a lawn fete. It was exactly what the shaken Clare needed.

Meanwhile Stonor slipped aside to his friends. "Lambert!" he cried, gripping his brother-sergeant's hand, "God knows your ugly phiz is a beautiful sight to my eyes! I knew I could depend on you! I knew it!"

Lambert silently clapped him on the back. He saw from Stonor's face what he must have been through.

Beyond Lambert Stonor caught sight of a gleaming smile on a dark face. "Tole!" he cried. "They brought you! How good it is to find one's friends!"



CHAPTER XVII

THE HEARING

They moved to a better camping-place on the mainland. Major Egerton could rough it as well as any youngster in the service, but as a matter of principle he always carried a folding bed, table, and chair in his outfit. These simple articles made a great impression on the natives. When the Major's tent was pitched, and the table and chair set up inside, the effect of a court of justice was immediately created, even in the remotest wilderness.

Next morning they all gathered in his tent. The Major sat at the table with Coulter, his orderly and general factotum, sitting on a box at his left with pen and note-book before him. Stonor stood at the Major's right. The two prisoners stood facing the table, with Lambert keeping an eye on them. Clare sat in the place of honour on the Major's cot against the side of the tent. Tole and Ancose squatted on their heels just inside the door.

"I'll start with the woman," said the Major. Addressing her directly, he said sternly: "It is my duty to tell you that anything you may say here can be used against you later, and it is therefore your privilege to refuse to answer. At the same time a refusal to answer naturally suggests the fear of incriminating yourself, so think well before you refuse. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, you speak good English. That simplifies matters. First, what is your name?"

"Annie Alexander."

"Married?"

"No, sir."

"Age?"

"Forty-four."

"Hm! You don't look it. What is your relation to the other prisoner here?"

"No relation, just a friend."

"Ah? Where do you come from?"

The woman hesitated.

Imbrie murmured: "Winnipeg."

"Be silent!" cried the Major. "Sergeant Lambert, take that man out, and keep him out of earshot until I call you."

It was done.

"How long have you been in this country?"

"Since Spring—May."

"How did you come in?"

"By way of Caribou Lake and the Crossing."

"Alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"By what means did you travel?"

"I got passage on a york boat up the rivers, and across Caribou Lake. From the lake a freighter took me on his load across the long portage to the Crossing."

"Ancose," said the Major, "you watch the prisoner outside, and ask Sergeant Lambert to step here."

Meanwhile he went on with his questions. "How did you travel from the Crossing?"

"I built a little raft and floated down the Spirit River to Carcajou Point."

Lambert came in.

"Lambert," said the Major, "this woman claims to have come over the portage to the Crossing in May with a freighter and to have built a raft there and floated down the river. Can you verify her story?"

"No, sir, never saw her before."

"Is it possible for her to have done such a thing?"

"Possible, sir," said Lambert cautiously, "but not likely. It's part of my business to keep track of all who come and go. There are not enough travellers to make that difficult. Such an extraordinary thing as a woman travelling alone on a raft would have been the talk of the country. If I might ask her a question, sir——?"

The Major signed to him to do so.

"What was the name of the freighter who brought you over the portage?"

"I don't know his whole name. Men called him Jack."

Lambert shrugged. "There's many a Jack, sir."

"Of course. Let it go for the present." To the woman he said: "What was your object in making this long journey alone?"

"Doctor Imbrie wrote to me to come and live with him. He had nobody to take care of his house and all that."

"I see. What do you mean by saying he was your friend?" The Major asked this with an uneasy glance in Clare's direction.

"Just my friend," answered the woman, with a hint of defiance. "I took care of him when he was little."

"Ah, his nurse. When did you get the letter from him?"

"In March."

"Where was it sent from?"

"Fort Enterprise."

"Sergeant Stonor, can you testify as to that?"

"I can testify that it is not true, sir. It was a matter of common knowledge at the post that Doctor Imbrie neither received nor sent any letters. We wondered at it. Furthermore, the only word received from him all winter was in January."

The Major turned to the woman. "According to that you are telling an untruth about the letter," he said sternly. "Do you wish to change your statement?"

She sullenly shook her head.

The Major shrugged and went on. "Was Doctor Imbrie waiting for you at Carcajou Point?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why didn't you meet at Fort Enterprise, where there was a good trail to Swan River?"

"He didn't feel like explaining things to the white men there. He likes to keep to himself."

"Where did you go from Carcajou Point?"

"We bought horses from the Beaver Indians and rode overland to Swan Lake."

"Bought horses?" said the Major quickly. "How did Doctor Imbrie get to Carcajou in the first place?"

She corrected herself. "I mean he bought extra horses for me, and for the outfit."

"And you rode to Swan Lake on your way back to his place?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you go to his place?"

"No, sir, I got sick at Swan Lake and he had to leave me."

"But if you were sick you needed a doctor, didn't you?"

"I wasn't very sick, I just couldn't travel, that was all."

"But why did he have to leave you?"

"He had business at his place."

"Business? There was no one there but himself."

The woman merely shrugged.

Major Egerton waved his hand in Clare's direction. "Do you know this lady?"

"Yes, sir. It's Doctor Imbrie's wife."

"How do you know that?"

"I saw them married."

"Where was that?"

"I won't answer that at present."

The Major turned to Clare apologetically. "Please excuse me if I must ask a painful question or two."

Clare nodded reassuringly.

"Why had Doctor Imbrie left his wife?"

The woman's eyes sparkled with resentment. "He didn't leave her. She left him. She——"

"That will do!" ordered the Major.

But the woman raised her voice. "She threw up the fact of his having red blood to him—though she knew it well enough when she married him. He was all cut up about it. That was why he came up here."

The Major, slightly embarrassed, turned to Stonor. "Will you question her?" he asked testily. "You are better informed as to the whole circumstances."

"If I might hear the man's story first, sir?"

"Very well. Send for him. What is the charge against the woman?"

"Shooting with intent to kill, sir."

"Enter that, Coulter. Whom did she shoot at?"

"At me, sir. On two occasions."

"Ah! An officer in the performance of his duty. Amend the charge, Coulter. Please relate the circumstances."

Stonor did so.

"Have you anything to say in regard to that?" the Major asked the woman.

She shook her head.

By this time Imbrie was again facing the tribunal. At Stonor's request the woman was allowed to remain in the tent during his examination. After stating the usual formula as to his rights, the Major started questioning him.

"Your name?"

"Ernest Imbrie, M.D."

"Age?"

"Twenty-six."

"Place of birth?"

"Winnipeg."

"Father's name?"

"John Imbrie."

"His occupation?"

"Farmer."

The Major raised his eyebrows. "In Winnipeg?"

"He lived off the income of his farms."

"Ah! Strange I never heard the name in Winnipeg. Do you wish to give any further information about your antecedents?"

"Not at present, sir."

"You have Indian blood in your veins?"

"Yes, sir, my grandmother was an Indian. I never saw her."

"How long have you been in this district?"

"A year, sir."

"How did you come here?"

"I got employment with a crew of boatmen at Miwasa Landing. I travelled with them as far as Great Buffalo Lake. There I bought a canoe from the Indians and came up the Swan River to the Great Falls and built me a shack."

"You were alone then?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did this woman come to join you?"

"I sent for her to keep my house for me."

"How did you get word to her?"

Imbrie blandly evaded the trap. "I sent a letter out privately to be passed along by the Indians—what they call moccasin telegraph."

"Ah! Why did you choose that method?"

"Because I wished to keep my affairs to myself. I had heard of the curiosity of the white men at Fort Enterprise concerning my movements, and I did not care to gratify it."

"Very well. Now, when you started back with her, did she go home with you?"

"No, sir. She was taken sick at Swan Lake, and I had to leave her there."

"How did you come to leave her if she was sick?"

"She was not very sick. Her leg swelled up and she couldn't travel, that was all."

Stonor signed to the Major that he wished to ask a question, and the Major bade him go ahead.

"Tell us exactly what was the matter with her, as a doctor, I mean."

"You wouldn't understand if I did tell you."

The Major rapped smartly on the table. "Impudence will do you no good, my man! Answer the Sergeant's question!"

"I decline to do so."

Stonor said: "I have established the point I wished to make, sir. He can't answer it."

Major Egerton proceeded: "Well, why didn't you wait for her until she got well?"

"I had to make a garden at home."

"You travelled three hundred miles down the river and back again to make a garden!"

"We have to eat through the winter."

"Stonor, was there a garden started at Imbrie's place?"

"Yes, sir, but it had been started weeks before. The potatoes were already several inches high."

Imbrie said: "I planted the potatoes before I left."

"Well, leave the garden for the present." The Major indicated Clare. "You know this lady?"

"I should hope so."

"Confine your answers to plain statements, please. Who is she?"

"My wife."

"Have you any proof of that?"

"She says so. She ought to know."

The Major addressed Clare. "Is it true that you have said you were his wife?"

"I cannot tell you of my own knowledge, sir. Sergeant Stonor has told me that before I lost my memory I told him I was Ernest Imbrie's wife."

The Major bowed and returned his attention to Imbrie. "When and where were you married?"

"I decline to answer."

The excellent Major, who was not noted for his patience with the evil-doer, turned an alarming colour, yet he still sought to reason with the man. "The answer to that question could not possibly injure you under any circumstances."

"Just the same, I decline to answer. You said it was my right."

With no little difficulty the Major still held himself in. "I am asking," he said, "for information which will enable me to return this lady to her friends until her memory is restored."

"I decline to give it," said Imbrie hardily. His face expressed a pleased vanity in being able, as he thought, to wield the whip-hand over the red-coats.

The little Major exploded. "You damned scoundrel!" he cried. "I'd like to wring your neck!"

"Put that down, please," Imbrie said to the clerk with ineffable conceit.

The Major put his hands behind his back and stamped up and down the four paces that comprised the length of his tent. "Stonor, I wonder—I wonder that you took the patience to bring him to last night!" he stammered. "Go on and question him if you want. I haven't the patience."

"Very well, sir. Imbrie, when I was taking you and this lady back to Fort Enterprise, why did you carry her off?"

"She was my wife. I wanted her. Anything strange in that?"

"No. But when we came to you at your place, why did you run away from us?"

"I hadn't had a good look at her then. I thought it best to keep out of the way."

"Why weren't you willing to come to the post and let the whole thing be explained?"

Imbrie's face suddenly turned dark with rage. He burst out, scarcely coherently: "I'll tell you that! And you can all digest it! A fat chance I'd have had among you! A fat chance I have now of getting a fair hearing! If she came all this way to find me, it's clear she wanted to make up, isn't it? Yet when she saw me, she turned away. She'd been travelling with you too long. You'd put your spell on her. You said she'd lost her memory. Bunk! Looks more like hypnotism to me. You wanted her for yourself. That's the whole explanation of this case. You've got nothing on me. You only want to railroad me so that the way will be clear for you with her. Why, when I was bound up they made love to each other before my very face. Isn't that true?"

"I am not under examination just now," said Stonor coldly.

"Answer me as a man, isn't it true?"

"No, it's a damned lie!"

"Well, if it had been me, I would!" cried the little Major.

Sergeant Lambert concealed a large smile behind his large hand.

Stonor, outwardly unmoved, said: "May I ask the woman one more question, sir, before I lay a charge against the man?"

"Certainly."

Stonor addressed the woman. "You say you are unmarried?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing with a wedding-ring?"

"It's my mother's ring. She gave it to me when she died."

"Tole," said Stonor, "take that ring off and hand it to me." To the Major he added in explanation: "Wedding-rings usually have the initials of the contracting parties and the date."

"Of course!"

The ring was removed and handed to Stonor.

Examining it he said: "There is an inscription here, sir. It is: 'J.I. to A.A., March 3rd, 1886.' It stands to reason this woman's mother was married long before 1886."

"She was married twice," muttered the woman.

Stonor laughed.

"What do you make of it, Sergeant?" asked the Major.

"John Imbrie to Annie Alexander."

"Then you suspect——?"

"That this woman is the man's mother, sir. It first occurred to me last night."

"By George! there is a certain likeness."

All those in the tent stared at the two prisoners in astonishment. The couple bore it with sullen inscrutability.

"I am now ready to make a charge against the man, sir."

The Major sat down. "What is the charge?"

"Murder."

Imbrie must have had this possibility in mind, for his face never changed a muscle. The woman, however, was frankly taken by surprise. She flung up her manacled hands involuntarily; a sharp cry escaped her.

"It's a lie!"

"Whom did he murder?"

"A man unknown to me, sir."

"Where was the deed committed?"

"At or near the shack above the Great Falls."

The woman's inscrutability was gone. She watched Stonor and waited for his evidence in an agony of apprehension.

"Did you find the body?"

"Yes, sir."

"Under what circumstances?"

"It had been thrown in the rapids, sir, in the expectation that it would be carried over the falls. Instead, however, it lodged in a log-jam above the falls. As I was walking along the shore I saw a foot sticking out of the water. I brought the body ashore——"

"You brought the body ashore—out of the rapids above the falls——?"

"Yes, sir. A woman I had with me, Mary Moosa, helped me."

"Describe the victim."

"A young man, sir, that is to say, under thirty. In stature about the same as the prisoner, and of the same complexion. What remained of his clothes suggested a man of refinement."

"But his face?"

"It was unrecognizable, sir."

A dreadful low cry broke from the half-breed woman. Her manacled hands went to her face, her body rocked forward from the waist.

The man rapped out a command to her in the Indian tongue to get a grip on herself. She tried to obey, straightening up, and taking down her hands. Her face showed a ghastly yellow pallor.

"What proof have you of murder?" asked the Major.

"There was no water in the dead man's lungs, sir, showing that he was dead before his body entered the water. There was a bullet-hole through his heart. I found the bullet itself lodged in the front of his spine. It was thirty-eight calibre, a revolver bullet. This man carried a thirty-eight revolver. I took it from him. I sent revolver and bullet out by Tole Grampierre."

Lambert spoke up: "They are in my possession, sir."

The breed woman seemed about to collapse. Imbrie, who had given no sign of being affected by Stonor's recital, now said with a more conciliatory air than he had yet shown:

"If you please, sir, she is overcome by the trooper's horrible story. Will you let her go outside for a moment to recover herself?"

"Very well," said the good-natured Major, "watch her, Lambert."

As the woman passed him Imbrie whispered to her in the Indian tongue: "Throw your locket in the river."

Stonor, on the alert for a trick of some kind, overheard. "No, you don't!" he said, stepping forward.

The woman made a sudden dive for the door, but Lambert seized her. She struggled like a mad thing, but the tall sergeant's arms closed around her like a vice. Meanwhile Stonor essayed to unclasp the chain around her neck. The two breeds guarded Imbrie to keep him from interfering.

Stonor got the locket off at last, and opened it with his thumb nail. The woman suddenly ceased to struggle, and sagged in Lambert's arms. An exclamation escaped from Stonor, and he glanced sharply into Imbrie's face. Within the locket on one side was a tinted photograph of the heads of two little boys, oddly alike. On the other side was an inscription in the neat Spencerian characters of twenty years before: "Ernest and William Imbrie,"—and a date.

Stonor handed the locket over to the Major without speaking. "Ha!" cried the latter. "So that is the explanation. There were two of them!"



CHAPTER XVIII

A LETTER FROM MAJOR EGERTON TO HIS FRIEND ARTHUR DONCOURT, ESQ.

MY DEAR DONCOURT:

You ask me to tell you some of the circumstances underlying the Imbrie murder case of which you have read the account in the annual report of the R.N.W.M.P. just published. You are right in supposing that a strange and moving tale is hidden behind the cold and formal phraseology of the report.

The first Imbrie was the Reverend Ernest, who went as a missionary to the Sikannis Indians away back in '79. Up to that time these Indians were absolutely uncivilized, and bore a reputation for savage cruelty. I suppose that was what stimulated the good man's zeal. He left a saintly tradition behind him. The Sikannis live away up the corner of British Columbia, on the head-waters of the Stanley River, one of the main branches of the Spirit River. The Spirit River, as you may know, rises west of the Rocky Mountains and breaks through. There is not a more remote spot this side the Arctic Circle, nor one more difficult of access.

The missionary brought with him his son, John Imbrie, a boy just approaching manhood. Very likely the danger of bringing up a boy absolutely cut off from the women of his race never occurred to the father. The inevitable happened. The boy fell in love with a handsome half-breed girl, the daughter of a wandering prospector and a Sikanni squaw, and married her out of hand. The heartbroken father was himself compelled to perform the ceremony. This was in 1886.

The Imbries were so far cut off from their kind that in time they were forgotten. The missionary supported himself by farming in a small way and trading his surplus products with the Indians. John turned out to be a good farmer and they prospered. Their farm was the last outpost of agriculture in that direction. From the time he went in with his father John did not see the outside world again until 1889, when he took his wife and babies out, with a vain hope, I think, of trying to educate the woman. Most of these marriages have tragic results, and this was no exception. During all the years in her husband's house this woman resisted every civilizing influence, except that she learned to deck herself out like a white woman.

She bore her husband twin sons, who were christened Ernest and William. They bore a strong resemblance to each other, but as they began to develop it appeared, as is so often the case in these mixed families, that Ernest had a white man's nature, and William a red man's. When the time came they were sent out to Winnipeg to school, but William, true to the savage nature, sickened in civilised surroundings, and had to be sent home. On the other hand, Ernest proved to be a sufficiently apt scholar, and went on through school and college. During the whole period between his thirteenth and his twenty-fourth year he was only home two or three times. William remained at home and grew up in ignorance. John Imbrie, the father, I gather, was a worthy man, but somewhat weak in his family relations.

Ernest went on to a medical college with the idea of practising among the Sikannis, who had no doctor. During his second year his father died, long before he could reach him, of course. He remained outside until he got his diploma. Meanwhile his mother and brother quickly relapsed into a state of savagery. They "pitched around" with the Indians, and the farm which had been so painstakingly hewn out of the wilderness by the two preceding generations grew up in weeds.

Ernest had a painful homecoming, I expect. However, he patiently set to work to restore his father's work. He managed to persuade his mother and brother to return and live in white man's fashion, but they made his life a hell for him, according to all accounts. They were insanely jealous of his superior attainments. Neither did the Sikannis welcome Doctor Ernest's ministrations. Since the death of the missionary they had been gradually slipping back into their ignorant ways, and now they instinctively took the part of the mother against the educated son. One can imagine what a dreary life the young medico lived among these savages. He has been described to me as a charming fellow, modest, kindly and plucky. And, by the way, I have not mentioned that these young fellows were uncommonly good-looking. William, or, as the Indians say, Hooliam, was one of the handsomest natives I ever saw.

Meanwhile that remote country was being talked about outside on account of the gold deposits along the upper reaches of the Stanley—largely mythically I believe. However that may be, prospectors began to straggle in, and in the summer of the year following Ernest's return from college, the government sent in a surveyor, one Frank Starling, to survey the claims, and adjust disputes. Starling brought with him his daughter Clare, a young lady of adventurous disposition.

Both the Imbrie boys fell in love with her according to their natures, thus further complicating the situation. Hooliam, the ignorant savage, could not aspire to her hand, of course, but the young doctor courted her, and she looked kindly on him. I do not consider that she was ever in love with him, though apart from the dark strain he was worthy of it as men go, a manly fellow!—but it was the hardness of his lot that touched her heart. Like many a good woman before her, she was carried away by compassion for the dogged youth struggling against such hopeless odds.

The father completed his work and took her out, and Ernest Imbrie followed them. They were married in the early spring at Fort Edward on the Campbell River, where the Starlings wintered. Ernest carried his bride back by canoe, hundreds of miles through the wilderness.

Their happiness, if indeed they were ever happy, was of brief duration. Whichever way you look at it, the situation was impossible. Ernest's mother, the breed woman, acted like a fiend incarnate, I have been told, and I can quite believe it, having witnessed some of her subsequent performances. Then there was the brother-in-law always hanging around the house, nursing his evil passion for his brother's wife. And in the background the ignorant, unfriendly Indians.

The catastrophe was precipitated by a gross insult offered to the girl by her husband's brother. He broke into her room one night impudently assuming to masquerade as her husband. Her husband saved her from him, but in the shock to her nerves she experienced a revulsion against the lot of them—and small wonder!

Her husband of his own free will took her back to her father. That's one of the finest things in the story, for there's no question but that he loved her desperately. The loss of her broke his spirit, which had endured so much. He never went back home. He felt, poor fellow, as if he were cast out alike by reds and whites, and his instinct was to find a place where he could bury himself far from all humankind.

He was next heard of at Miwasa landing a thousand miles away, across the mountains. Here he got employment with a york boat crew and travelled with them down-stream some hundreds of miles north to Great Buffalo Lake. Here he obtained a canoe from the Indians, and, with a small store of grub, set off on his own. He made his way up the Swan River, an unexplored stream emptying into Great Buffalo Lake, as far as the Great Falls, and there he built himself a shack.

He could hardly have found a spot better suited to his purpose. No white man so far as known had ever visited those falls, and even the Indians avoid the neighbourhood for superstitious reasons. But even here he could not quite cut himself off from his kind. An epidemic of measles broke out among the Kakisa Indians up the river from him, and out of pure humanity he went among them and cured them. These Indians were grateful, strange to say; they almost deified the white man who had appeared so strangely in their country.

Meanwhile the wrong she had done him began to prey on his wife's mind. She could not rest under the thought that she had wrecked his usefulness. Ernest Imbrie had, with the idea of keeping his mind from rusting out in solitude, ordered certain papers and books sent to him at Fort Enterprise. His wife learned of this address through his medical college, and in the spring of the year following her marriage, that is to say the spring of the year just past, she set off in search of him without saying anything to anybody of her intention.

She and her father were still at Fort Edward—have I said that the girl had no mother?—and Hooliam Imbrie had been there, too, during the winter, not daring to approach the girl precisely, but just hanging around the neighbourhood. One can't help feeling for the poor wretch, bad as he was, he was hard-hit, too. He bribed a native servant to show him the letter giving his brother's address, and when the girl set off, he instantly guessed her errand, and determined to prevent their meeting.

Now it is only a short distance from Fort Edward over the height of land to the source of the main southerly branch of the Spirit, and Hooliam was therefore able to proceed direct to Fort Enterprise by canoe (a journey of more than a thousand miles), pausing only to go up the Stanley to pick up his mother, who was ripe for such an adventure. At Carcajou Point, when they had almost reached Enterprise, they heard the legend of the White Medicine Man off on the unknown Swan River, and they decided to avoid Enterprise and hit straight across the prairie.

Meanwhile the girl was obliged to make a long detour south to the railway, then across the mountains and north again by all sorts of conveyances, with many delays. So Hooliam and his mother arrived a few weeks before her, but they in turn were delayed at Swan Lake by the woman's illness.

You have read a transcript of the statements of this precious pair at the hearing before me. Read it again, and observe the ingenious web of truth and falsehood. For instance, it was true the woman fell sick at Swan Lake, and Hooliam after waiting awhile for her, finally went down the river without her—only a few days in advance of Sergeant Stonor and Ernest Imbrie's wife. As soon as Hooliam reached Swan Lake he began to meet Indians who had seen his brother, and thereafter he was always hailed among them as the White Medicine Man. The Indians never troubled to explain to themselves how he had got to Swan Lake, because they ascribed magical powers to him anyway.

What happened between the brothers when they met will never be known for certain. Hooliam swears that he did not intend to kill Ernest, but that the deed was done in self-defence during a quarrel. However that may be, Ernest was shot through the heart with a bullet from Hooliam's gun, and his body cast in the river.

You have read the rest of the story; how Stonor arrived with Ernest's wife, and how, at the shock of beholding her husband's body, the poor girl lost her memory. How Hooliam sought to escape up-stream, and Stonor's confusion when he was told by an Indian that the White Medicine Man was still alive. How Hooliam kidnapped the girl from Stonor, and tried to win back to the mountains and his own country by way of the unexplored river.

We established the fact that Hooliam did not tell his mother what had happened at the Great Falls. She thought that Hooliam had found Ernest gone still further north. You can see at the hearing how when Stonor first told of the murder, in her horror at the discovery that one brother had killed the other the truth finally came out. Though she had always taken Hooliam's part she could not altogether deny her feeling for the other son.

Well, that's about all. I consider that they got off easily; Hooliam with twenty years, and the woman with half that sentence; but in the man's case it was impossible to prove that the murder was a deliberate one, and though the woman certainly did her best to put Stonor out of the way, as it happened he escaped.

You ask about the Indian woman, Mary Moosa, who served Stonor and Mrs. Imbrie so faithfully. We overtook her at Swan Lake on the way out. So she did not starve to death on the river, but recovered from her wound.

When we got out as far as Caribou Lake we met Mrs. Imbrie's distracted father coming in search of her. The meeting between them was very affecting. I am happy to say that the young lady has since recovered her memory entirely, and at the last account was very well.

You are curious to know what kind of fellow Stonor is. I can only answer, an ornament to the service. Simple, manly and dependable as a trooper ought to be. With a splendid strong body and a good wit. Out of such as he the glorious tradition of our force was built. They are becoming more difficult to get, I am sorry to say. I had long had my eye on him, and this affair settled it. I have recommended him for a commission. He is a man of good birth and education. Moreover I saw that if we didn't commission him we'd lose him; for he wants to get married. As a result of the terrible trials they faced together he and Ernest Imbrie's widow have conceived a deep affection for each other. Enlisted men are not allowed to marry. They make a fine pair, Doncourt. It makes an old fellow sort of happy and weepy to see them together.

Stonor is now at the Officers' School at General Headquarters, and if he passes his examinations will be commissioned in the summer.

We'll talk further about this interesting case when good fortune brings us together again. In the meantime, my dear Doncourt,

Yours faithfully, FRANK EGERTON.



EPILOGUE

In a bare and spotless company-room in headquarters in Regina eight uneasy troopers in fatigue uniform were waiting. Down one side of the room a row of tall windows looked out on the brown parade-ground, and beyond the buildings on the other side they could see a long Transcontinental train slowly gathering way up the westward grade.

"Hey, boys!" cried one. "How'd you like to be aboard her with your shoulder-straps and spurs?"

They cast unfriendly glances at the speaker and snorted.

"Don't try to be an ass, Carter," said one. "It doesn't require the effort."

They evinced their nervousness in characteristic ways. Several were polishing bits of brass already dazzling; one sat voraciously chewing gum and staring into vacancy; one paced up and down like a caged animal; another tried to pick a quarrel with his mates, and the eighth, Sergeant Stonor—the hero of Swan River they called him when they wished to annoy him—sat in a corner writing a letter.

To the eight entered a hardened sergeant-major, purpled-jowled and soldierly. All eight pairs of eyes sprang to his face in a kind of agony of suspense. He twirled his moustache and a wicked, dancing light appeared in his little blue eyes.

"You're a nice set of duffers!" he rasped. "Blockheads all eight of you. Why they ever sent you down beats me. I've seen some rum lots, but never your equal. Flunked, every man of you!"

The eight pairs of eyes were cast down. Nobody said anything. Each was thinking: "So that dream is over. I mustn't let anything on before the others": those who were polishing brass gave an extra twirl to the chamois.

Stonor, suddenly suspicious, narrowly searched the sergeant-major's face. "Fellows, he's joshing!" he cried. "It isn't possible that every one of us has flunked! It isn't reasonable!"

The sergeant-major roared with laughter. "Wonderful penetration, Sherlock! When I saw your faces I couldn't help it. You were asking for it. All passed! That's straight. Congrats!" He passed on down the corridor.

There was a silence in the company-room. They looked shyly at each other to see how the news was being taken. Each felt a sudden warmth of heart towards all his mates. All of them displayed an elaborate and perfectly transparent assumption of indifference. Stonor added a postscript to his letter, and sedately folded it.

Then speech came, at first softly. "Damn old Huggins, anyway. Almost gave me heart-failure!... Wot t'hell, Bill! Poor old Hugs, it was his last chance. Sure, we'll have him where we want him now.... Think of being able to call Hugs down!... Lordy, Lordy, am I awake!"

Suddenly the unnatural tension broke, and a long-limbed trooper jumped to his feet with his arms in the air. "Boys! Are you dumb! We've passed! We've got the straps! All together now, Mumbo-Jumbo!"

They marched around the room with their hands on each other's shoulders, singing:

"For I've got rings on my fingers And bells on my toes; Elephants to ride upon——"

In a little house in Vancouver, embowered in such greenery as only the mild, moist airs of Puget Sound can produce, a young woman sat in her drawing-room regarding a letter she had just read with a highly dissatisfied air. It was a pretty little room, not rich nor fussy, but expressing the charm of an individual woman no less than the clothes she wore.

To the mistress entered the maid, to wit, a matronly Indian woman with an intelligent face. She looked from her mistress' face to the letter, and back to her mistress again. When the latter made no offer to speak she said, for she was a privileged person:

"You hear from Stonor?"

Clare nodded.

"He not pass his 'xamination, I guess?"

"Certainly he has passed!" said Clare sharply. "If anybody can pass their examinations he can."

"Why you look so sorry then?"

"Oh—nothing. I didn't expect him to write it. A five-word postscript at the end of a matter-of-fact letter."

"Maybe he couldn't get leave."

"He said he'd get leave if he passed."

"Maybe he comin' anyhow."

"He never says a word about coming."

"You ask him to come?"

"Of course not!"

"Don't you want him come?"

"I don't know whether I do or not."

Mary looked perplexed.

Clare burst out, "I can't ask him. He'd feel obliged to come. A man—man like that anyway, would feel after what we've been through together that I had a claim on him. Well, I don't want him to come out of a sense of duty. Don't you understand?"

Mary shook her head. "If I want something I ask for it."

"It's not so simple as all that!"

"Maybe he think he not wanted here."

"A man's supposed to take that chance."

"Awful long way to come on a chance," said Mary. "Maybe I write to him."

Clare jumped up. "Don't you dare!" she cried. "If I thought for a moment—if I thought he had been brought, I should be perfectly hateful to him. I couldn't help myself—Is that a motor at the gate?"

"Yes, Miss, a taxi-cab."

"Stopping here?"

"Yes, Miss,"—with absolute calm: "Stonor is gettin' out."

"What!—Oh, Mary!—It can't be!—It is!"

A bell rang.

"Oh, Mary! What shall I do? Don't go to the door! Let him wait a minute. Let me think what I must do. Let me get upstairs!"

* * * * *

Stonor got up and sat down, and got up again. He walked to the window and back to the door. He listened for sounds in the house, and then went back to his chair again. He heard a sound overhead and sprang to the door once more. He saw her on the stairs, and retreated back into the room. She came down with maddening deliberation, step by step. She did not look through the door, but paused a second to straighten a picture that hung askew on the wall. Stonor's heart was beating like a trip-hammer.

She came into the room smiling in friendly fashion with a little gush of speech—but her eyes did not quite meet his.

"Well, Martin! Congratulations! I just got your letter this morning. I didn't expect you to follow so soon. So it's Inspector Stonor now, eh? Very becoming uniform, sir! Was the examination difficult? You must tell me all about it. I suppose you are just off the train. What kind of a trip did you have? Sit down."

He was a little flabbergasted by her easy flow of speech. "I don't want to sit down," he muttered huskily. He was staring at her from a white face.

She sat; glanced out of the window, glanced here and there about the room, and rattled on: "Haven't we got a jolly little place here? But I expect we'll be ordered on directly. Mary and I were talking about you the moment you rang the bell. Mary is so good to me, but her heart is already turning to Fort Enterprise and her children, I'm afraid."

He found his tongue at last. "Clare, don't!" he cried brokenly. "I didn't come eight hundred miles to hear you make parlour conversation. What's the matter? What have I done? If you've changed towards me tell me so plainly, and let me get out. I can't stand this!"

Panic seized her. "I must see about lunch. Excuse me just a moment," she said, making for the door.

He caught her as she tried to pass. "Damn lunch! Look me in the eye, woman!"

She relaxed. Her eyes crept imploringly up to his. "Bear!" she whispered. "You might at least have given me a moment's respite!—Oh, I love you! I love you! I love you!"

THE END



[Transcriber's Note: The following changes have been made from the original text:

Pg. 27: heart-strings —> heartstrings (... plucked at his heartstrings with a ...) Pg. 44: strain ... —> strain.... (I've been under a strain....) Pg. 54: bambye —> bam-bye (... but bam-bye he rise up again ...) Pg. 85: storeroom —> store-room (... a work-room and store-room.) Pg. 85: Snow-shoes —> Snowshoes (Snowshoes, roughly-fashioned fur garments ...) Pg. 105: backwater —> back-water (... out of the back-water alongshore ...) Pg. 105: along-shore —> alongshore (... out of the back-water alongshore ...) Pg. 133: redskin —> red-skin (Some red-skin mumbo-jumbo.) Pg. 172: horseflesh —> horse-flesh (... horse-flesh, fresh into the bargain.) Pg. 174: singlehanded —> single-handed (... brave him single-handed ...) Pg. 219: get's —> gets (And if she gets a knife ...) Pg. 256: headwaters —> head-waters (... on the head-waters of the Stanley River ...) Pg. 260: downstream —> down-stream (... travelled with them down-stream ...) Pg. 267: hunk —> hung (... picture that hung askew ...)]

THE END