THE RIVER'S END

James Oliver Curwood

JTABLE 10 25 1

THE RIVER'S END

I

Between Conniston, of His Majesty's Royal Northwest Mounted Police, andKeith, the outlaw, there was a striking physical and facialresemblance. Both had observed it, of course. It gave them a sort ofconfidence in each other. Between them it hovered in a subtle andunanalyzed presence that was constantly suggesting to Conniston a lineof action that would have made him a traitor to his oath of duty. Fornearly a month he had crushed down the whispered temptings of thisthing between them. He represented the law. He was the law. Fortwenty-seven months he had followed Keith, and always there had been inhis mind that parting injunction of the splendid service of which hewas a part--"Don't come back until you get your man, dead or alive. "Otherwise--

A racking cough split in upon his thoughts. He sat up on the edge ofthe cot, and at the gasping cry of pain that came with the red stain ofblood on his lips Keith went to him and with a strong arm supported hisshoulders. He said nothing, and after a moment Conniston wiped thestain away and laughed softly, even before the shadow of pain had fadedfrom his eyes. One of his hands rested on a wrist that still bore thering-mark of a handcuff. The sight of it brought him back to grimreality. After all, fate was playing whimsically as well as tragicallywith their destinies. 

"Thanks, old top, " he said. "Thanks. "

His fingers closed over the manacle-marked wrist. 

Over their heads the arctic storm was crashing in a mighty fury, as ifstriving to beat down the little cabin that had dared to rear itself inthe dun-gray emptiness at the top of the world, eight hundred milesfrom civilization. There were curious waitings, strange screechingsounds, and heart-breaking meanings in its strife, and when at last itspassion died away and there followed a strange quiet, the two men couldfeel the frozen earth under their feet shiver with the rumblingreverberations of the crashing and breaking fields of ice out inHudson's Bay. With it came a dull and steady roar, like the incessantrumble of a far battle, broken now and then--when an ice mountain splitasunder--with a report like that of a sixteen-inch gun. Down throughthe Roes Welcome into Hudson's Bay countless billions of tons of icewere rending their way like Hunnish armies in the break-up. 

"You'd better lie down, " suggested Keith. 

Conniston, instead, rose slowly to his feet and went to a table onwhich a seal-oil lamp was burning. He swayed a little as he walked. Hesat down, and Keith seated himself opposite him. Between them lay aworn deck of cards. As Conniston fumbled them in his fingers, he lookedstraight across at Keith and grinned. 

"It's queer, devilish queer, " he said. 

"Don't you think so, Keith?" He was an Englishman, and his blue eyesshone with a grim, cold humor. "And funny, " he added. 

"Queer, but not funny, " partly agreed Keith. 

"Yes, it is funny, " maintained Conniston. "Just twenty-seven monthsago, lacking three days, I was sent out to get you, Keith. I was toldto bring you in dead or alive--and at the end of the twenty-sixth monthI got you, alive. And as a sporting proposition you deserve a hundredyears of life instead of the noose, Keith, for you led me a chase thattook me through seven different kinds of hell before I landed you. Ifroze, and I starved, and I drowned. I haven't seen a white woman'sface in eighteen months. It was terrible. But I beat you at last. That's the jolly good part of it, Keith--I beat you and GOT you, andthere's the proof of it on your wrists this minute. I won. Do youconcede that? You must be fair, old top, because this is the last biggame I'll ever play. " There was a break, a yearning that was almostplaintive, in his voice. 

Keith nodded. "You won, " he said. 

"You won so square that when the frost got your lung--"

"You didn't take advantage of me, " interrupted Conniston. "That's thefunny part of it, Keith. That's where the humor comes in. I had you alltied up and scheduled for the hangman when--bing!--along comes a coldsnap that bites a corner of my lung, and the tables are turned. Andinstead of doing to me as I was going to do to you, instead of killingme or making your getaway while I was helpless--Keith--old pal--YOU'VETRIED TO NURSE ME BACK TO LIFE! Isn't that funny? Could anything befunnier?"

He reached a hand across the table and gripped Keith's. And then, for afew moments, he bowed his head while his body was convulsed by anotherracking cough. Keith sensed the pain of it in the convulsive clutchingof Conniston's fingers about his own. When Conniston raised his face, the red stain was on his lips again. 

"You see, I've got it figured out to the day, " he went on, wiping awaythe stain with a cloth already dyed red. "This is Thursday. I won't seeanother Sunday. It'll come Friday night or some time Saturday. I'veseen this frosted lung business a dozen times. Understand? I've got twosure days ahead of me, possibly a third. Then you'll have to dig a holeand bury me. After that you will no longer be held by the word of honoryou gave me when I slipped off your manacles. And I'm asking you--WHATARE YOU GOING TO DO?"

In Keith's face were written deeply the lines of suffering and oftragedy. Yesterday they had compared ages. 

He was thirty-eight, only a little younger than the man who had run himdown and who in the hour of his achievement was dying. They had not putthe fact plainly before. It had been a matter of some littleembarrassment for Keith, who at another time had found it easier tokill a man than to tell this man that he was going to die. Now thatConniston had measured his own span definitely and with most amazingcoolness, a load was lifted from Keith's shoulders. Over the table theylooked into each other's eyes, and this time it was Keith's fingersthat tightened about Conniston's. They looked like brothers in thesickly glow of the seal-oil lamp. 

"What are you going to do?" repeated Conniston. 

Keith's face aged even as the dying Englishman stared at him. "Isuppose--I'll go back, " he said heavily. 

"You mean to Coronation Gulf? You'll return to that stinking mess ofEskimo igloos? If you do, you'll go mad!"

"I expect to, " said Keith. "But it's the only thing left. You knowthat. You of all men must know how they've hunted me. If I went south--"

It was Conniston's turn to nod his head, slowly and thoughtfully. "Yes, of course, " he agreed. "They're hunting you hard, and you're giving 'ema bully chase. But they'll get you, even up there. And I'm--sorry. "

Their hands unclasped. Conniston filled his pipe and lighted it. Keithnoticed that he held the lighted taper without a tremor. The nerve ofthe man was magnificent. 

"I'm sorry, " he said again. "I--like you. Do you know, Keith, I wishwe'd been born brothers and you hadn't killed a man. That night Islipped the ring-dogs on you I felt almost like a devil. I wouldn't sayit if it wasn't for this bally lung. But what's the use of keeping itback now? It doesn't seem fair to keep a man up in that place for threeyears, running from hole to hole like a rat, and then take him down fora hanging. I know it isn't fair in your case. I feel it. I don't meanto be inquisitive, old chap, but I'm not believing Departmental 'facts'any more. I'd make a topping good wager you're not the sort they makeyou out. And so I'd like to know--just why--you killed Judge Kirkstone?"

Keith's two fists knotted in the center of the table. Conniston saw hisblue eyes darken for an instant with a savage fire. In that momentthere came a strange silence over the cabin, and in that silence theincessant and maddening yapping of the little white foxes rose shrillyover the distant booming and rumbling of the ice. 

II

"Why did I kill Judge Kirkstone?" Keith repeated the words slowly. 

His clenched hands relaxed, but his eyes held the steady glow of fire. "What do the Departmental 'facts' tell you, Conniston?"

"That you murdered him in cold blood, and that the honor of the Serviceis at stake until you are hung. "

"There's a lot in the view-point, isn't there? What if I said I didn'tkill Judge Kirkstone?"

Conniston leaned forward a little too eagerly. The deadly paroxysmshook his frame again, and when it was over his breath came pantingly, as if hissing through a sieve. "My God, not Sunday--or Saturday, " hebreathed. "Keith, it's coming TOMORROW!"

"No, no, not then, " said Keith, choking back something that rose in histhroat. "You'd better lie down again. "

Conniston gathered new strength. "And die like a rabbit? No, thank you, old chap! I'm after facts, and you can't lie to a dying man. Did youkill Judge Kirkstone?"

"I--don't--know, " replied Keith slowly, looking steadily into theother's eyes. "I think so, and yet I am not positive. I went to hishome that night with the determination to wring justice from him orkill him. I wish you could look at it all with my eyes, Conniston. Youcould if you had known my father. You see, my mother died when I was alittle chap, and my father and I grew up together, chums. I don'tbelieve I ever thought of him as just simply a father. Fathers arecommon. He was more than that. From the time I was ten years old wewere inseparable. I guess I was twenty before he told me of the deadlyfeud that existed between him and Kirkstone, and it never troubled memuch--because I didn't think anything would ever come of it--untilKirkstone got him. Then I realized that all through the years the oldrattlesnake had been watching for his chance. It was a frame-up frombeginning to end, and my father stepped into the trap. Even then hethought that his political enemies, and not Kirkstone, were at thebottom of it. We soon discovered the truth. My father got ten years. Hewas innocent. And the only man on earth who could prove his innocencewas Kirkstone, the man who was gloating like a Shylock over his poundof flesh. Conniston, if you had known these things and had been in myshoes, what would you have done?"

Conniston, lighting another taper over the oil flame, hesitated andanswered: "I don't know yet, old chap. What did you do?"

"I fairly got down on my knees to the scoundrel, " resumed Keith. "Ifever a man begged for another man's life, I begged for my father's--forthe few words from Kirkstone that would set him free. I offeredeverything I had in the world, even my body and soul. God, I'll neverforget that night! He sat there, fat and oily, two big rings on hisstubby fingers--a monstrous toad in human form--and he chuckled andlaughed at me in his joy, as though I were a mountebank playing amusingtricks for him--and there my soul was bleeding itself out before hiseyes! And his son came in, fat and oily and accursed like his father, and HE laughed at me. I didn't know that such hatred could exist in theworld, or that vengeance could bring such hellish joy. I could stillhear their gloating laughter when I stumbled out into the night. Ithaunted me. I heard it in the trees. It came in the wind. My brain wasfilled with it--and suddenly I turned back, and I went into that houseagain without knocking, and I faced the two of them alone once more inthat room. And this time, Conniston, I went back to get justice--or tokill. Thus far it was premeditated, but I went with my naked hands. There was a key in the door, and I locked it. Then I made my demand. Iwasted no words--"

Keith rose from the table and began to pace back and forth. The windhad died again. They could hear the yapping of the foxes and the lowthunder of the ice. 

"The son began it, " said Keith. "He sprang at me. I struck him. Wegrappled, and then the beast himself leaped at me with some sort ofweapon in his hand. I couldn't see what it was, but it was heavy. Thefirst blow almost broke my shoulder. In the scuffle I wrenched it fromhis hand, and then I found it was a long, rectangular bar of coppermade for a paper-weight. In that same instant I saw the son snatch up asimilar object from the table, and in the act he smashed the tablelight. In darkness we fought. I did not feel that I was fighting men. They were monsters and gave me the horrible sensation of being indarkness with crawling serpents. Yes, I struck hard. And the son wasstriking, and neither of us could see. I felt my weapon hit, and it wasthen that Kirkstone crumpled down with a blubbery wheeze. You know whathappened after that. The next morning only one copper weight was foundin that room. The son had done away with the other. And the one thatwas left was covered with Kirkstone's blood and hair. There was nochance for me. So I got away. Six months later my father died inprison, and for three years I've been hunted as a fox is hunted by thehounds. That's all, Conniston. Did I kill Judge Kirkstone? And, if Ikilled him, do you think I'm sorry for it, even though I hang?"

"Sit down!"

The Englishman's voice was commanding. Keith dropped back to his seat, breathing hard. He saw a strange light in the steely blue eyes ofConniston. 

"Keith, when a man knows he's going to live, he is blind to a lot ofthings. But when he knows he's going to die, it's different. If you hadtold me that story a month ago, I'd have taken you down to the hangmanjust the same. It would have been my duty, you know, and I might haveargued you were lying. But you can't lie to me--now. Kirkstone deservedto die. And so I've made up my mind what you're going to do. You're notgoing back to Coronation Gulf. You're going south. You're going backinto God's country again. And you're not going as John Keith, themurderer, but as Derwent Conniston of His Majesty's Royal NorthwestMounted Police! Do you get me, Keith? Do you understand?"

Keith simply stared. The Englishman twisted a mustache, a half-humorousgleam in his eyes. He had been thinking of this plan of his for sometime, and he had foreseen just how it would take Keith off his feet. 

"Quite a scheme, don't you think, old chap? I like you. I don't mindsaying I think a lot of you, and there isn't any reason on earth whyyou shouldn't go on living in my shoes. There's no moral objection. Noone will miss me. I was the black sheep back in England--youngerbrother and all that--and when I had to choose between Africa andCanada, I chose Canada. An Englishman's pride is the biggest fool thingon earth, Keith, and I suppose all of them over there think I'm dead. They haven't heard from me in six or seven years. I'm forgotten. Andthe beautiful thing about this scheme is that we look so deucedlyalike, you know. Trim that mustache and beard of yours a little, add abit of a scar over your right eye, and you can walk in on old McDowellhimself, and I'll wager he'll jump up and say, 'Bless my heart, if itisn't Conniston!' That's all I've got to leave you, Keith, a dead man'sclothes and name. But you're welcome. They'll be of no more use to meafter tomorrow. "

"Impossible!" gasped Keith. "Conniston, do you know what you aresaying?"

"Positively, old chap. I count every word, because it hurts when Italk. So you won't argue with me, please. It's the biggest sportingthing that's ever come my way. I'll be dead. You can bury me under thisfloor, where the foxes can't get at me. But my name will go on livingand you'll wear my clothes back to civilization and tell McDowell howyou got your man and how he died up here with a frosted lung. As proofof it you'll lug your own clothes down in a bundle along with any otherlittle identifying things you may have, and there's a sergeancywaiting. McDowell promised it to you--if you got your man. Understand?And McDowell hasn't seen me for two years and three months, so if IMIGHT look a bit different to him, it would be natural, for you and Ihave been on the rough edge of the world all that time. The jolly goodpart of it all is that we look so much alike. I say the idea issplendid!"

Conniston rose above the presence of death in the thrill of the greatgamble he was projecting. And Keith, whose heart was pounding like anexcited fist, saw in a flash the amazing audacity of the thing that wasin Conniston's mind, and felt the responsive thrill of itspossibilities. No one down there would recognize in him the John Keithof four years ago. Then he was smooth-faced, with shoulders thatstooped a little and a body that was not too strong. Now he was ananimal! A four years' fight with the raw things of life had made himthat, and inch for inch he measured up with Conniston. And Conniston, sitting opposite him, looked enough like him to be a twin brother. Heseemed to read the thought in Keith's mind. There was an amused glitterin his eyes. 

"I suppose it's largely because of the hair on our faces, " he said. "You know a beard can cover a multitude of physical sins--anddifferences, old chap. I wore mine two years before I started out afteryou, vandyked rather carefully, you understand, so you'd better not usea razor. Physically you won't run a ghost of a chance of being caught. You'll look the part. The real fun is coming in other ways. In the nexttwenty-four hours you've got to learn by heart the history of DerwentConniston from the day he joined the Royal Mounted. We won't go backfurther than that, for it wouldn't interest you, and ancient historywon't turn up to trouble you. Your biggest danger will be withMcDowell, commanding F Division at Prince Albert. He's a human fox ofthe old military school, mustaches and all, and he can see throughboiler-plate. But he's got a big heart. He has been a good friend ofmine, so along with Derwent Conniston's story you've got to load upwith a lot about McDowell, too. There are many things--OH, GOD--"

He flung a hand to his chest. Grim horror settled in the little cabinas the cough convulsed him. And over it the wind shrieked again, swallowing up the yapping of the foxes and the rumble of the ice. 

That night, in the yellow sputter of the seal-oil lamp, the fightbegan. Grim-faced--one realizing the nearness of death and strugglingto hold it back, the other praying for time--two men went through theamazing process of trading their identities. From the beginning it wasConniston's fight. And Keith, looking at him, knew that in this lastmighty effort to die game the Englishman was narrowing the slightmargin of hours ahead of him. Keith had loved but one man, his father. In this fight he learned to love another, Conniston. And once he criedout bitterly that it was unfair, that Conniston should live and heshould die. The dying Englishman smiled and laid a hand on his, andKeith felt that the hand was damp with a cold sweat. 

Through the terrible hours that followed Keith felt the strength andcourage of the dying man becoming slowly a part of himself. The thingwas epic. Conniston, throttling his own agony, was magnificent. AndKeith felt his warped and despairing soul swelling with a new life anda new hope, and he was thrilled by the thought of what he must do tolive up to the mark of the Englishman. Conniston's story was of theimportant things first. It began with his acquaintance with McDowell. And then, between the paroxysms that stained his lips red, he filled inwith incident and smiled wanly as he told how McDowell had sworn him tosecrecy once in the matter of an incident which the chief did not wantthe barracks to know--and laugh over. A very sensitive man in some wayswas McDowell! At the end of the first hour Keith stood up in the middleof the floor, and with his arms resting on the table and his shoulderssagging Conniston put him through the drill. After that he gave Keithhis worn Service Manual and commanded him to study while he rested. Keith helped him to his bunk, and for a time after that tried to readthe Service book. But his eyes blurred, and his brain refused to obey. The agony in the Englishman's low breathing oppressed him with aphysical pain. Keith felt himself choking and rose at last from thetable and went out into the gray, ghostly twilight of the night. 

His lungs drank in the ice-tanged air. But it was not cold. Kwaske-hoo--the change--had come. The air was filled with the tumult ofthe last fight of winter against the invasion of spring, and the forcesof winter were crumbling. The earth under Keith's feet trembled in themighty throes of their dissolution. He could hear more clearly the roarand snarl and rending thunder of the great fields of ice as they sweptdown with the arctic current into Hudson's Bay. Over him hovered astrange night. It was not black but a weird and wraith-like gray, andout of this sepulchral chaos came strange sounds and the moaning of awind high up. A little while longer, Keith thought, and the thing wouldhave driven him mad. Even now he fancied he heard the screaming andwailing of voices far up under the hidden stars. More than once in thepast months he had listened to the sobbing of little children, theagony of weeping women, and the taunting of wind voices that wereeither tormenting or crying out in a ghoulish triumph; and more thanonce in those months he had seen Eskimos--born in that hell but drivenmad in the torture of its long night--rend the clothes from theirbodies and plunge naked out into the pitiless gloom and cold to die. Conniston would never know how near the final breakdown his brain hadbeen in that hour when he made him a prisoner. And Keith had not toldhim. The man-hunter had saved him from going mad. But Keith had keptthat secret to himself. 

Even now he shrank down as a blast of wind shot out of the chaos aboveand smote the cabin with a shriek that had in it a peculiarlypenetrating note. And then he squared his shoulders and laughed, andthe yapping of the foxes no longer filled him with a shudderingtorment. Beyond them he was seeing home. God's country! Green forestsand waters spattered with golden sun--things he had almost forgotten;once more the faces of women who were white. And with those faces heheard the voice of his people and the song of birds and felt under hisfeet the velvety touch of earth that was bathed in the aroma offlowers. Yes, he had almost forgotten those things. Yesterday they hadbeen with him only as moldering skeletons--phantasmaldream-things--because he was going mad, but now they were real, theywere just off there to the south, and he was going to them. Hestretched up his arms, and a cry rose out of his throat. It was oftriumph, of final exaltation. Three years of THAT--and he had livedthrough it! Three years of dodging from burrow to burrow, just asConniston had said, like a hunted fox; three years of starvation, offreezing, of loneliness so great that his soul had broken--and now hewas going home!

He turned again to the cabin, and when he entered the pale face of thedying Englishman greeted him from the dim glow of the yellow light atthe table. And Conniston was smiling in a quizzical, distressed sort ofway, with a hand at his chest. His open watch on the table pointed tothe hour of midnight when the lesson went on. 

Still later he heated the muzzle of his revolver in the flame of theseal-oil. 

"It will hurt, old chap--putting this scar over your eye. But it's gotto be done. I say, won't it be a ripping joke on McDowell?" Softly herepeated it, smiling into Keith's eyes. "A ripping joke--on McDowell!"

III

Dawn--the dusk of another night--and Keith raised his haggard face fromConniston's bedside with a woman's sob on his lips. The Englishman haddied as he knew that he would die, game to the last threadbare breaththat came out of his body. For with this last breath he whispered thewords which he had repeated a dozen times before, "Remember, old chap, you win or lose the moment McDowell first sets his eyes on you!" Andthen, with a strange kind of sob in his chest, he was gone, and Keith'seyes were blinded by the miracle of a hot flood of tears, and thererose in him a mighty pride in the name of Derwent Conniston. 

It was his name now. John Keith was dead. It was Derwent Conniston whowas living. And as he looked down into the cold, still face of theheroic Englishman, the thing did not seem so strange to him after all. It would not be difficult to bear Conniston's name; the difficultywould be in living up to the Conniston code. 

That night the rumble of the ice fields was clearer because there wasno wind to deaden their tumult. The sky was cloudless, and the starswere like glaring, yellow eyes peering through holes in a vast, overhanging curtain of jet black. Keith, out to fill his lungs withair, looked up at the phenomenon of the polar night and shuddered. Thestars were like living things, and they were looking at him. Undertheir sinister glow the foxes were holding high carnival. It seemed toKeith that they had drawn a closer circle about the cabin and thatthere was a different note in their yapping now, a note that was morepersistent, more horrible. Conniston had foreseen that closing-in ofthe little white beasts of the night, and Keith, reentering the cabin, set about the fulfillment of his promise. Ghostly dawn found his taskcompleted. 

Half an hour later he stood in the edge of the scrub timber that rimmedin the arctic plain, and looked for the last time upon the little cabinunder the floor of which the Englishman was buried. It stood theresplendidly unafraid in its terrible loneliness, a proud monument to adead man's courage and a dead man's soul. Within its four walls ittreasured a thing which gave to it at last a reason for being, a reasonfor fighting against dissolution as long as one log could hold uponanother. Conniston's spirit had become a living part of it, and thefoxes might yap everlastingly, and the winds howl, and winter followwinter, and long night follow long night--and it would stand there inits pride fighting to the last, a memorial to Derwent Conniston, theEnglishman. 

Looking back at it, Keith bared his head in the raw dawn. "God blessyou, Conniston, " he whispered, and turned slowly away and into thesouth. 

Ahead of him was eight hundred miles of wilderness--eight hundred milesbetween him and the little town on the Saskatchewan where McDowellcommanded Division of the Royal Mounted. The thought of distance didnot appall him. Four years at the top of the earth had accustomed himto the illimitable and had inured him to the lack of things. Thatwinter Conniston had followed him with the tenacity of a ferret for athousand miles along the rim of the Arctic, and it had been a miraclethat he had not killed the Englishman. A score of times he might haveended the exciting chase without staining his own hands. His Eskimofriends would have performed the deed at a word. But he had let theEnglishman live, and Conniston, dead, was sending him back home. Eighthundred miles was but the step between. 

He had no dogs or sledge. His own team had given up the ghost long ago, and a treacherous Kogmollock from the Roes Welcome had stolen theEnglishman's outfit in the last lap of their race down from Fullerton'sPoint. What he carried was Conniston's, with the exception of his rifleand his own parka and hood. He even wore Conniston's watch. His packwas light. The chief articles it contained were a little flour, athree-pound tent, a sleeping-bag, and certain articles ofidentification to prove the death of John Keith, the outlaw. Hour afterhour of that first day the zip, zip, zip of his snowshoes beat withdeadly monotony upon his brain. He could not think. Time and again itseemed to him that something was pulling him back, and always he washearing Conniston's voice and seeing Conniston's face in the gray gloomof the day about him. He passed through the slim finger of scrub timberthat a strange freak of nature had flung across the plain, and oncemore was a moving speck in a wide and wind-swept barren. In theafternoon he made out a dark rim on the southern horizon and knew itwas timber, real timber, the first he had seen since that day, a yearand a half ago, when the last of the Mackenzie River forest had fadedaway behind him! It gave him, at last, something tangible to grip. Itwas a thing beckoning to him, a sentient, living wall beyond which washis other world. The eight hundred miles meant less to him than thespace between himself and that growing, black rim on the horizon. 

He reached it as the twilight of the day was dissolving into the deeperdusk of the night, and put up his tent in the shelter of a clump ofgnarled and storm-beaten spruce. Then he gathered wood and builthimself a fire. He did not count the sticks as he had counted them foreighteen months. He was wasteful, prodigal. He had traveled forty milessince morning but he felt no exhaustion. He gathered wood until he hada great pile of it, and the flames of his fire leaped higher and higheruntil the spruce needles crackled and hissed over his head. He boiled apot of weak tea and made a supper of caribou meat and a bit of bannock. Then he sat with his back to a tree and stared into the flames. 

The fire leaping and crackling before his eyes was like a powerfulmedicine. It stirred things that had lain dormant within him. Itconsumed the heavy dross of four years of stupefying torture andbrought back to him vividly the happenings of a yesterday that haddragged itself on like a century. All at once he seemed unburdened ofshackles that had weighted him down to the point of madness. Everyfiber in his body responded to that glorious roar of the fire; a thingseemed to snap in his head, freeing it of an oppressive bondage, and inthe heart of the flames he saw home, and hope, and life--the thingsfamiliar and precious long ago, which the scourge of the north hadalmost beaten dead in his memory. He saw the broad Saskatchewanshimmering its way through the yellow plains, banked in by thefoothills and the golden mists of morning dawn; he saw his home townclinging to its shore on one side and with its back against the purplewilderness on the other; he heard the rhythmic chug, chug, chug of theold gold dredge and the rattle of its chains as it devoured its tons ofsand for a few grains of treasure; over him there were lacy clouds in ablue heaven again, he heard the sound of voices, the tread of feet, laughter--life. His soul reborn, he rose to his feet and stretched hisarms until the muscles snapped. No, they would not know him backthere--now! He laughed softly as he thought of the old JohnKeith--"Johnny" they used to call him up and down the fewbalsam-scented streets--his father's right-hand man mentally but alittle off feed, as his chum, Reddy McTabb, used to say, when it cameto the matter of muscle and brawn. He could look back on things withoutexcitement now. Even hatred had burned itself out, and he found himselfwondering if old Judge Kirkstone's house looked the same on the top ofthe hill, and if Miriam Kirkstone had come back to live there afterthat terrible night when he had returned to avenge his father. 

Four years! It was not so very long, though the years had seemed like alifetime to him. There would not be many changes. Everything would bethe same--everything--except--the old home. That home he and his fatherhad planned, and they had overseen the building of it, a chateau oflogs a little distance from the town, with the Saskatchewan sweepingbelow it and the forest at its doors. Masterless, it must have seenchanges in those four years. Fumbling in his pocket, his fingerstouched Conniston's watch. He drew it out and let the firelight play onthe open dial. It was ten o'clock. In the back of the premier half ofthe case Conniston had at some time or another pasted a picture. Itmust have been a long time ago, for the face was faded and indistinct. The eyes alone were undimmed, and in the flash of the fire they took ona living glow as they looked at Keith. It was the face of a younggirl--a schoolgirl, Keith thought, of ten or twelve. Yet the eyesseemed older; they seemed pleading with someone, speaking a messagethat had come spontaneously out of the soul of the child. Keith closedthe watch. Its tick, tick, tick rose louder to his ears. He dropped itin his pocket. He could still hear it. 

A pitch-filled spruce knot exploded with the startling vividness of astar bomb, and with it came a dull sort of mental shock to Keith. Hewas sure that for an instant he had seen Conniston's face and that theEnglishman's eyes were looking at him as the eyes had looked at him outof the face in the watch. The deception was so real that it sent himback a step, staring, and then, his eyes striving to catch the illusionagain, there fell upon him a realization of the tremendous strain hehad been under for many hours. It had been days since he had sleptsoundly. Yet he was not sleepy now; he scarcely felt fatigue. Theinstinct of self-preservation made him arrange his sleeping-bag on acarpet of spruce boughs in the tent and go to bed. 

Even then, for a long time, he lay in the grip of a harrowingwakefulness. He closed his eyes, but it was impossible for him to holdthem closed. The sounds of the night came to him with painfuldistinctness--the crackling of the fire, the serpent-like hiss of theflaming pitch, the whispering of the tree tops, and the steady tick, tick, tick of Conniston's watch. And out on the barren, through the rimof sheltering trees, the wind was beginning to moan its everlastingwhimper and sob of loneliness. In spite of his clenched hands and hisfighting determination to hold it off, Keith fancied that he heardagain--riding strangely in that wind--the sound of Conniston's voice. And suddenly he asked himself: What did it mean? What was it thatConniston had forgotten? What was it that Conniston had been trying totell him all that day, when he had felt the presence of him in thegloom of the Barrens? Was it that Conniston wanted him to come back?

He tried to rid himself of the depressing insistence of that thought. And yet he was certain that in the last half-hour before death enteredthe cabin the Englishman had wanted to tell him something and hadcrucified the desire. There was the triumph of an iron courage in thoselast words, "Remember, old chap, you win or lose the moment McDowellfirst sets his eyes on you!"--but in the next instant, as death senthome its thrust, Keith had caught a glimpse of Conniston's naked soul, and in that final moment when speech was gone forever, he knew thatConniston was fighting to make his lips utter words which he had leftunspoken until too late. And Keith, listening to the moaning of thewind and the crackling of the fire, found himself repeating over andover again, "What was it he wanted to say?"

In a lull in the wind Conniston's watch seemed to beat like a heart inits case, and swiftly its tick, tick, ticked to his ears an answer, "Come back, come back, come back!"

With a cry at his own pitiable weakness, Keith thrust the thing farunder his sleeping-bag, and there its sound was smothered. At lastsleep overcame him like a restless anesthesia. 

With the break of another day he came out of his tent and stirred thefire. There were still bits of burning ember, and these he fanned intolife and added to their flame fresh fuel. He could not easily forgetlast night's torture, but its significance was gone. He laughed at hisown folly and wondered what Conniston himself would have thought of hisnervousness. For the first time in years he thought of the old daysdown at college where, among other things, he had made a mark forhimself in psychology. He had considered himself an expert in thediscussion and understanding of phenomena of the mind. Afterward he hadlived up to the mark and had profited by his beliefs, and the fact thata simple relaxation of his mental machinery had so disturbed him lastnight amused him now. The solution was easy. It was his mind strugglingto equilibrium after four years of brain-fag. And he felt better. Hisbrain was clearer. He listened to the watch and found its tickingnatural. He braced himself to another effort and whistled as heprepared his breakfast. 

After that he packed his dunnage and continued south. He wondered ifConniston ever knew his Manual as he learned it now. At the end of thesixth day he could repeat it from cover to cover. Every hour he made ita practice to stop short and salute the trees about him. McDowell wouldnot catch him there. 

"I am Derwent Conniston, " he kept telling himself. "John Keith isdead--dead. I buried him back there under the cabin, the cabin built bySergeant Trossy and his patrol in nineteen hundred and eight. My nameis Conniston--Derwent Conniston. "

In his years of aloneness he had grown into the habit of talking tohimself--or with himself--to keep up his courage and sanity. "Keith, old boy, we've got to fight it out, " he would say. Now it was, "Conniston, old chap, we'll win or die. " After the third day, he neverspoke of John Keith except as a man who was dead. And over the deadJohn Keith he spread Conniston's mantle. "John Keith died game, sir, "he said to McDowell, who was a tree. "He was the finest chap I everknew. "

On this sixth day came the miracle. For the first time in many monthsJohn Keith saw the sun. He had seen the murky glow of it before this, fighting to break through the pall of fog and haze that hung over theBarrens, but this sixth day it was the sun, the real sun, bursting inall its glory for a short space over the northern world. Each day afterthis the sun was nearer and warmer, as the arctic vapor clouds andfrost smoke were left farther behind, and not until he had passedbeyond the ice fogs entirely did Keith swing westward. He did nothurry, for now that he was out of his prison, he wanted time in whichto feel the first exhilarating thrill of his freedom. And more than allelse he knew that he must measure and test himself for the tremendousfight ahead of him. 

Now that the sun and the blue sky had cleared his brain, he saw thehundred pit-falls in his way, the hundred little slips that might bemade, the hundred traps waiting for any chance blunder on his part. Deliberately he was on his way to the hangman. Down there--every day ofhis life--he would rub elbows with him as he passed his fellow men inthe street. He would never completely feel himself out of the presenceof death. Day and night he must watch himself and guard himself, histongue, his feet, his thoughts, never knowing in what hour the eyes ofthe law would pierce the veneer of his disguise and deliver his life asthe forfeit. There were times when the contemplation of these thingsappalled him, and his mind turned to other channels of escape. Andthen--always--he heard Conniston's cool, fighting voice, and the redblood fired up in his veins, and he faced home. 

He was Derwent Conniston. And never for an hour could he put out of hismind the one great mystifying question in this adventure of life anddeath, who was Derwent Conniston? Shred by shred he pieced togetherwhat little he knew, and always he arrived at the same futile end. AnEnglishman, dead to his family if he had one, an outcast or anexpatriate--and the finest, bravest gentleman he had ever known. It wasthe WHYFORE of these things that stirred within him an emotion which hehad never experienced before. The Englishman had grimly anddeterminedly taken his secret to the grave with him. To him, JohnKeith--who was now Derwent Conniston--he had left an heritage of deepmystery and the mission, if he so chose, of discovering who he was, whence he had come--and why. Often he looked at the young girl'spicture in the watch, and always he saw in her eyes something whichmade him think of Conniston as he lay in the last hour of his life. Undoubtedly the girl had grown into a woman now. 

Days grew into weeks, and under Keith's feet the wet, sweet-smellingearth rose up through the last of the slush snow. Three hundred milesbelow the Barrens, he was in the Reindeer Lake country early in May. For a week he rested at a trapper's cabin on the Burntwood, and afterthat set out for Cumberland House. Ten days later he arrived at thepost, and in the sunlit glow of the second evening afterward he builthis camp-fire on the shore of the yellow Saskatchewan. 

The mighty river, beloved from the days of his boyhood, sang to himagain, that night, the wonderful things that time and grief had dimmedin his heart. The moon rose over it, a warm wind drifted out of thesouth, and Keith, smoking his pipe, sat for a long time listening tothe soft murmur of it as it rolled past at his feet. For him it hadalways been more than the river. He had grown up with it, and it hadbecome a part of him; it had mothered his earliest dreams andambitions; on it he had sought his first adventures; it had been hischum, his friend, and his comrade, and the fancy struck him that in themurmuring voice of it tonight there was a gladness, a welcome, anexultation in his return. He looked out on its silvery bars shimmeringin the moonlight, and a flood of memories swept upon him. Thirty yearswas not so long ago that he could not remember the beautiful mother whohad told him stories as the sun went down and bedtime drew near. Andvividly there stood out the wonderful tales of Kistachiwun, the river;how it was born away over in the mystery of the western mountains, awayfrom the eyes and feet of men; how it came down from the mountains intothe hills, and through the hills into the plains, broadening anddeepening and growing mightier with every mile, until at last it sweptpast their door, bearing with it the golden grains of sand that mademen rich. His father had pointed out the deep-beaten trails of buffaloto him and had told him stories of the Indians and of the land beforewhite men came, so that between father and mother the river became hisbook of fables, his wonderland, the never-ending source of histreasured tales of childhood. And tonight the river was the one thingleft to him. It was the one friend he could claim again, the onecomrade he could open his arms to without fear of betrayal. And withthe grief for things that once had lived and were now dead, there cameover him a strange sort of happiness, the spirit of the great riveritself giving him consolation. 

Stretching out his arms, he cried: "My old river--it's me--JohnnyKeith! I've come back!"

And the river, whispering, seemed to answer him: "It's Johnny Keith!And he's come back! He's come back!"

IV

For a week John Keith followed up the shores of the Saskatchewan. Itwas a hundred and forty miles from the Hudson's Bay Company's post ofCumberland House to Prince Albert as the crow would fly, but Keith didnot travel a homing line. Only now and then did he take advantage of aportage trail. Clinging to the river, his journey was lengthened bysome sixty miles. Now that the hour for which Conniston had preparedhim was so close at hand, he felt the need of this mighty, tonguelessfriend that had played such an intimate part in his life. It gave tohim both courage and confidence, and in its company he could think moreclearly. Nights he camped on its golden-yellow bars with the open starsover his head when he slept; his ears drank in the familiar sounds oflong ago, for which he had yearned to the point of madness in hisexile--the soft cries of the birds that hunted and mated in the glow ofthe moon, the friendly twit, twit, twit of the low-flying sand-pipers, the hoot of the owls, and the splash and sleepy voice of wildfowlalready on their way up from the south. Out of that south, where inplaces the plains swept the forest back almost to the river's edge, heheard now and then the doglike barking of his little yellow friends ofmany an exciting horseback chase, the coyotes, and on the wildernessside, deep in the forest, the sinister howling of wolves. He wastraveling, literally, the narrow pathway between two worlds. The riverwas that pathway. On the one hand, not so very far away, were therolling prairies, green fields of grain, settlements and towns and thehomes of men; on the other the wilderness lay to the water's edge withits doors still open to him. The seventh day a new sound came to hisears at dawn. It was the whistle of a train at Prince Albert. 

There was no change in that whistle, and every nerve-string in his bodyresponded to it with crying thrill. It was the first voice to greet hishome-coming, and the sound of it rolled the yesterdays back upon him ina deluge. He knew where he was now; he recalled exactly what he wouldfind at the next turn in the river. A few minutes later he heard thewheezy chug, chug, chug of the old gold dredge at McCoffin's Bend. Itwould be the Betty M. , of course, with old Andy Duggan at the windlass, his black pipe in mouth, still scooping up the shifting sands as he hadscooped them up for more than twenty years. He could see Andy sittingat his post, clouded in a halo of tobacco smoke, a red-bearded, shaggy-headed giant of a man whom the town affectionately called theRiver Pirate. All his life Andy had spent in digging gold out of themountains or the river, and like grim death he had hung to the barsabove and below McCoffin's Bend. Keith smiled as he remembered oldAndy's passion for bacon. One could always find the perfume of baconabout the Betty M. , and when Duggan went to town, there were those whoswore they could smell it in his whiskers. 

Keith left the river trail now for the old logging road. In spite ofhis long fight to steel himself for what Conniston had called the"psychological moment, " he felt himself in the grip of an uncomfortablemental excitement. At last he was face to face with the great gamble. In a few hours he would play his one card. If he won, there was lifeahead of him again, if he lost--death. The old question which he hadstruggled to down surged upon him. Was it worth the chance? Was it inan hour of madness that he and Conniston had pledged themselves to thisamazing adventure? The forest was still with him. He could turn back. The game had not yet gone so far that he could not withdraw hishand--and for a space a powerful impulse moved him. And then, comingsuddenly to the edge of the clearing at McCoffin's Bend, he saw thedredge close inshore, and striding up from the beach Andy Dugganhimself! In another moment Keith had stepped forth and was holding up ahand in greeting. 

He felt his heart thumping in an unfamiliar way as Duggan came on. Wasit conceivable that the riverman would not recognize him? He forgot hisbeard, forgot the great change that four years had wrought in him. Heremembered only that Duggan had been his friend, that a hundred timesthey had sat together in the quiet glow of long evenings, telling talesof the great river they both loved. And always Duggan's stories hadbeen of that mystic paradise hidden away in the western mountains--theriver's end, the paradise of golden lure, where the Saskatchewan wasborn amid towering peaks, and where Duggan--a long time ago--hadquested for the treasure which he knew was hidden somewhere there. Fouryears had not changed Duggan. If anything his beard was redder andthicker and his hair shaggier than when Keith had last seen him. Andthen, following him from the Betsy M. , Keith caught the everlastingscent of bacon. He devoured it in deep breaths. His soul cried out forit. Once he had grown tired of Duggan's bacon, but now he felt that hecould go on eating it forever. As Duggan advanced, he was moved by atremendous desire to stretch out his hand and say: "I'm John Keith. Don't you know me, Duggan?" Instead, he choked back his desire andsaid, "Fine morning!"

Duggan nodded uncertainly. He was evidently puzzled at not being ableto place his man. "It's always fine on the river, rain 'r shine. Anybody who says it ain't is a God A'mighty liar!"

He was still the old Duggan, ready to fight for his river at the dropof a hat! Keith wanted to hug him. He shifted his pack and said:

"I've slept with it for a week--just to have it for company--on the waydown from Cumberland House. Seems good to get back!" He took off hishat and met the riverman's eyes squarely. "Do you happen to know ifMcDowell is at barracks?" he asked. 

"He is, " said Duggan. 

That was all. He was looking at Keith with a curious directness. Keithheld his breath. He would have given a good deal to have seen behindDuggan's beard. There was a hard note in the riverman's voice, too. Itpuzzled him. And there was a flash of sullen fire in his eyes at themention of McDowell's name. "The Inspector's there--sittin' tight, " headded, and to Keith's amazement brushed past him without another wordand disappeared into the bush. 

This, at least, was not like the good-humored Duggan of four years ago. Keith replaced his hat and went on. At the farther side of the clearinghe turned and looked back. Duggan stood in the open roadway, his handsthrust deep in his pockets, staring after him. Keith waved his hand, but Duggan did not respond. He stood like a sphinx, his big red beardglowing in the early sun, and watched Keith until he was gone. 

To Keith this first experiment in the matter of testing an identity wasa disappointment. It was not only disappointing but filled him withapprehension. It was true that Duggan had not recognized him as JohnKeith, BUT NEITHER HAD HE RECOGNIZED HIM AS DERWENT CONNISTON! AndDuggan was not a man to forget in three or four years--or half alifetime, for that matter. He saw himself facing a new and unexpectedsituation. What if McDowell, like Duggan, saw in him nothing more thana stranger? The Englishman's last words pounded in his head again likelittle fists beating home a truth, "You win or lose the moment McDowellfirst sets his eyes on you. " They pressed upon him now with a deadlysignificance. For the first time he understood all that Conniston hadmeant. His danger was not alone in the possibility of being recognizedas John Keith; it lay also in the hazard of NOT being recognized asDerwent Conniston. 

If the thought had come to him to turn back, if the voice of fear and apremonition of impending evil had urged him to seek freedom in anotherdirection, their whispered cautions were futile in the thrill of thegreater excitement that possessed him now. That there was a third handplaying in this game of chance in which Conniston had already lost hislife, and in which he was now staking his own, was something which gaveto Keith a new and entirely unlooked-for desire to see the end of theadventure. The mental vision of his own certain fate, should he lose, dissolved into a nebulous presence that no longer oppressed norappalled him. Physical instinct to fight against odds, the inspirationthat presages the uncertainty of battle, fired his blood with anexhilarating eagerness. He was anxious to stand face to face withMcDowell. Not until then would the real fight begin. For the first timethe fact seized upon him that the Englishman was wrong--he would NOTwin or lose in the first moment of the Inspector's scrutiny. In thatmoment he could lose--McDowell's cleverly trained eyes might detect thefraud; but to win, if the game was not lost at the first shot, meant anexciting struggle. Today might be his Armageddon, but it could notpossess the hour of his final triumph. 

He felt himself now like a warrior held in leash within sound of theenemy's guns and the smell of his powder. He held his old world to behis enemy, for civilization meant people, and the people were thelaw--and the law wanted his life. Never had he possessed a deeperhatred for the old code of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooththan in this hour when he saw up the valley a gray mist of smoke risingover the roofs of his home town. He had never conceded within himselfthat he was a criminal. He believed that in killing Kirkstone he hadkilled a serpent who had deserved to die, and a hundred times he hadtold himself that the job would have been much more satisfactory fromthe view-point of human sanitation if he had sent the son in thefather's footsteps. He had rid the people of a man not fit to live--andthe people wanted to kill him for it. Therefore the men and women inthat town he had once loved, and still loved, were his enemies, and tofind friends among them again he was compelled to perpetrate a cleverfraud. 

He remembered an unboarded path from this side of the town, whichentered an inconspicuous little street at the end of which was a barbershop. It was the barber shop which he must reach first He was glad thatit was early in the day when he came to the street an hour later, forhe would meet few people. The street had changed considerably. Long, open spaces had filled in with houses, and he wondered if theanticipated boom of four years ago had come. He smiled grimly as thehumor of the situation struck him. His father and he had staked theirfuture in accumulating a lot of "outside" property. If the boom hadmaterialized, that property was "inside" now--and worth a great deal. Before he reached the barber shop he realized that the dream of thePrince Albertites had come true. Prosperity had advanced upon them inmighty leaps. The population of the place had trebled. He was a richman! And also, it occurred to him, he was a dead one--or would be whenhe reported officially to McDowell. What a merry scrap there would beamong the heirs of John Keith, deceased!

The old shop still clung to its corner, which was valuable as "businessfootage" now. But it possessed a new barber. He was alone. Keith gavehis instructions in definite detail and showed him Conniston'sphotograph in his identification book. The beard and mustache must bejust so, very smart, decidedly English, and of military neatness, hishair cut not too short and brushed smoothly back. When the operationwas over, he congratulated the barber and himself. Bronzed to the colorof an Indian by wind and smoke, straight as an arrow, his musclesswelling with the brute strength of the wilderness, he smiled athimself in the mirror when he compared the old John Keith with this newDerwent Conniston! Before he went out he tightened his belt a notch. Then he headed straight for the barracks of His Majesty's RoyalNorthwest Mounted Police. 

His way took him up the main street, past the rows of shops that hadbeen there four years ago, past the Saskatchewan Hotel and the littleBoard of Trade building which, like the old barber shop, still hung toits original perch at the edge of the high bank which ran precipitouslydown to the river. And there, as sure as fate, was Percival Clary, thelittle 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 nowimportant office resting lightly on a cane. Keith grinned as hewitnessed how prosperity had bolstered up Percival along with the town. His eyes quested for familiar faces as he went along. Here and there hesaw one, but for the most part he encountered strangers, lively lookingmen who were hustling as if they had a mission in hand. Glaring realestate signs greeted him from every place of prominence, andautomobiles began to hum up and down the main street that stretchedalong the river--twenty where there had been one not so long ago. 

Keith found himself fighting to keep his eyes straight ahead when hemet a girl or a woman. Never had he believed fully and utterly in theangelhood of the feminine until now. He passed perhaps a dozen on theway to barracks, and he was overwhelmed with the desire to stop andfeast his eyes upon each one of them. He had never been a lover ofwomen; he admired them, he believed them to be the better part of man, he had worshiped his mother, but his heart had been neither glorifiednor broken by a passion for the opposite sex. Now, to the bottom of hissoul, he worshiped that dozen! Some of them were homely, some of themwere plain, two or three of them were pretty, but to Keith theirpresent physical qualifications made no difference. They were whitewomen, and they were glorious, every one of them! The plainest of themwas lovely. He wanted to throw up his hat and shout in sheer joy. Fouryears--and now he was back in angel land! For a space he forgotMcDowell. 

His head was in a whirl when he came to barracks. Life was good, afterall. It was worth fighting for, and he was bound fight. He wentstraight to McDowell's office. A moment after his knock on the door theInspector's secretary appeared. 

"The Inspector is busy, sir, " he said in response to Keith's inquiry. "I'll tell him--"

"That I am here on a very important matter, " advised Keith. "He willadmit me when you tell him that I bring information regarding a certainJohn Keith. "

The secretary disappeared through an inner door. It seemed not morethan ten seconds before he was back. "The Inspector will see you, sir. "

Keith drew a deep breath to quiet the violent beating of his heart. Inspite of all his courage he felt upon him the clutch of a cold andforeboding hand, a hand that seemed struggling to drag him back. Andagain he heard Conniston's dying voice whispering to him, "REMEMBER, OLD CHAP, YOU WIN OR LOSE THE MOMENT MCDOWELL FIRST SETS HIS EYES ONYOU!"

Was Conniston right?

Win or lose, he would play the game as the Englishman would have playedit. Squaring his shoulders he entered to face McDowell, the cleverestman-hunter in the Northwest. 

V

Keith's first vision, as he entered the office of the Inspector ofPolice, was not of McDowell, but of a girl. She sat directly facing himas he advanced through the door, the light from a window throwing intostrong relief her face and hair. The effect was unusual. She wasstrikingly handsome. The sun, giving to the room a soft radiance, litup her hair with shimmering gold; her eyes, Keith saw, were a clear andwonderful gray--and they stared at him as he entered, while the poiseof her body and the tenseness of her face gave evidence of sudden andunusual emotion. These things Keith observed in a flash; then he turnedtoward McDowell. 

The Inspector sat behind a table covered with maps and papers, andinstantly Keith was conscious of the penetrating inquisition of hisgaze. He felt, for an instant, the disquieting tremor of the criminal. Then he met McDowell's eyes squarely. They were, as Conniston hadwarned him, eyes that could see through boiler-plate. Of an indefinablecolor and deep set behind shaggy, gray eyebrows, they pierced himthrough at the first glance. Keith took in the carefully waxed graymustaches, the close-cropped gray hair, the rigidly set muscles of theman's face, and saluted. 

He felt creeping over him a slow chill. There was no greeting in thatiron-like countenance, for full a quarter-minute no sign ofrecognition. And then, as the sun had played in the girl's hair, a newemotion passed over McDowell's face, and Keith saw for the first timethe man whom Derwent Conniston had known as a friend as well as asuperior. He rose from his chair, and leaning over the table said in avoice in which were mingled both amazement and pleasure:

"We were just talking about the devil--and here you are, sir!Conniston, how are you?"

For a few moments Keith did not see. HE HAD WON! The blood poundedthrough his heart so violently that it confused his vision and hissenses. He felt the grip of McDowell's hand; he heard his voice; avision swam before his eyes--and it was the vision of DerwentConniston's triumphant face. He was standing erect, his head was up, hewas meeting McDowell shoulder to shoulder, even smiling, but in thatswift surge of exultation he did not know. McDowell, still gripping hishand and with his other hand on his arm, was wheeling him about, and hefound the girl on her feet, staring at him as if he had newly risenfrom the dead. 

McDowell's military voice was snapping vibrantly, "Conniston, meet MissMiriam Kirkstone, daughter of Judge Kirkstone!"

He bowed and held for a moment in his own the hand of the girl whosefather he had killed. It was lifeless and cold. Her lips moved, merelyspeaking his name. His own were mute. McDowell was saying somethingabout the glory of the service and the sovereignty of the law. Andthen, breaking in like the beat of a drum on the introduction, hisvoice demanded, "Conniston--DID YOU GET YOUR MAN?"

The question brought Keith to his senses. He inclined his head slightlyand said, "I beg to report that John Keith is dead, sir. "

He saw Miriam Kirkstone give a visible start, as if his words hadcarried a stab. She was apparently making a strong effort to hide heragitation as she turned swiftly away from him, speaking to McDowell. 

"You have been very kind, Inspector McDowell. I hope very soon to havethe pleasure of talking with Mr. Conniston--about--John Keith. "

She left them, nodding slightly to Keith. 

When she was gone, a puzzled look filled the Inspector's eyes. "She hasbeen like that for the last six months, " he explained. "Tremendouslyinterested in this man Keith and his fate. I don't believe that I havewatched for your return more anxiously than she has, Conniston. And thecurious part of it is she seemed to have no interest in the matter atall until six months ago. Sometimes I am afraid that brooding over herfather'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 thatKeith felt the effect of them in every nerve of his body. He sensedinstantly what McDowell meant. He was NOT like the Englishman; helacked his mannerisms, his cool and superior suavity, the inimitablequality of his nerve and sportsmanship. Even as he met the disquietingdirectness of the Inspector's eyes, he could see Conniston sitting inhis place, rolling his mustache between his forefinger and thumb, andsmiling as though he had gone into the north but yesterday and hadreturned today. That was what McDowell was missing in him, the soul ofConniston himself--Conniston, the ne plus ultra of presence and amiablecondescension, the man who could look the Inspector or the HighCommissioner himself between the eyes, and, serenely indifferent toService regulations, say, "Fine morning, old top!" Keith was notwithout his own sense of humor. How the Englishman's ghost must beraging if it was in the room at the present moment! He grinned andshrugged 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 leeringat you and the foxes barking at you all the time, fighting to keepyourself from going mad? I went through that twice to get John Keith, and I guess you're right. I'm changed. I don't think I'll ever be thesame again. Something--has gone. I can't tell what it is, but I feelit. I guess only half of me pulled through. It killed John Keith. Rotten, isn't it?"

He felt that he had made a lucky stroke. McDowell pulled out a drawerfrom under the table and thrust a box of fat cigars under his nose. 

"Light up, Derry--light up and tell us what happened. Bless my soul, you're not half dead! A week in the old town will straighten you out. "

He struck a match and held it to the tip of Keith's cigar. 

For an hour thereafter Keith told the story of the man-hunt. It was hisIliad. He could feel the presence of Conniston as words fell from hislips; he forgot the presence of the stern-faced man who was watchinghim and listening to him; he could see once more only the long monthsand years of that epic drama of one against one, of pursuit and flight, of hunger and cold, of the Long Nights filled with the desolation ofmadness and despair. He triumphed over himself, and it was Connistonwho spoke from within him. It was the Englishman who told how terriblyJohn Keith had been punished, and when he came to the final days in thelonely little cabin in the edge of the Barrens, Keith finished with achoking in his throat, and the words, "And that was how John Keithdied--a gentleman and a MAN!"

He was thinking of the Englishman, of the calm and fearless smile inhis eyes as he died, of his last words, the last friendly grip of hishand, and McDowell saw the thing as though he had faced it himself. Hebrushed a hand over his face as if to wipe away a film. For somemoments after Keith had finished, he stood with his back to the man whohe thought was Conniston, and his mind was swiftly adding twos and twosand fours and fours as he looked away into the green valley of theSaskatchewan. He was the iron man when he turned to Keith again, thelaw itself, merciless and potent, by some miracle turned into the formof human flesh. 

"After two and a half years of THAT even a murderer must have seemedlike a saint to you, Conniston. You have done your work splendidly. Thewhole story shall go to the Department, and if it doesn't bring you acommission, I'll resign. But we must continue to regret that John Keithdid not live to be hanged. "

"He has paid the price, " said Keith dully. 

"No, he has not paid the price, not in full. He merely died. It couldhave been paid only at the end of a rope. His crime was atrociouslybrutal, the culmination of a fiend's desire for revenge. We will wipeoff his name. But I can not wipe away the regret. I would sacrifice ayear of my life if he were in this room with you now. It would be worthit. God, what a thing for the Service--to have brought John Keith backto justice after four years!"

He was rubbing his hands and smiling at Keith even as he spoke. Hiseyes had taken on a filmy glitter. The law! It stood there, withoutheart or soul, coveting the life that had escaped it. A feeling ofrevulsion swept over Keith. 

A knock came at the door. 

McDowell's voice gave permission, and the door slowly opened. Cruze, the young secretary, thrust in his head. 

"Shan Tung is waiting, sir, " he said. 

An invisible hand reached up suddenly and gripped at Keith's throat. Heturned aside to conceal what his face might have betrayed. Shan Tung!He knew what it was now that had pulled him back, he knew whyConniston's troubled face had traveled with him over the Barrens, andthere surged over him with a sickening foreboding, a realization ofwhat it was that Conniston had remembered and wanted to tell him--whenit was too late. THEY HAD FORGOTTEN SHAN TUNG, THE CHINAMAN!

VI

In the hall beyond the secretary's room Shan Tung waited. As McDowellwas the iron and steel embodiment of the law, so Shan Tung was theflesh and blood spirit of the mysticism and immutability of his race. His face was the face of an image made of an unemotional living tissuein place of wood or stone, dispassionate, tolerant, patient. Whatpassed in the brain behind his yellow-tinged eyes only Shan Tung knew. It was his secret. And McDowell had ceased to analyze or attempt tounderstand him. The law, baffled in its curiosity, had come to accepthim as a weird and wonderful mechanism--a thing more than aman--possessed of an unholy power. This power was the oriental'smarvelous ability to remember faces. Once Shan Tung looked at a face, it was photographed in his memory for years. Time and change could notmake him forget--and the law made use of him. 

Briefly McDowell had classified him at Headquarters. "Either an exiledprime minister of China or the devil in a yellow skin, " he had writtento the Commissioner. "Correct age unknown and past history a mystery. Dropped into Prince Albert in 1908 wearing diamonds and patent leathershoes. A stranger then and a stranger now. Proprietor and owner of theShan Tung Cafe. Educated, soft-spoken, womanish, but the one man onearth I'd hate to be in a dark room with, knives drawn. I use him, mistrust him, watch him, and would fear him under certain conditions. As far as we can discover, he is harmless and law-abiding. But such aferret must surely have played his game somewhere, at some time. "

This was the man whom Conniston had forgotten and Keith now dreaded tomeet. For many minutes Shan Tung had stood at a window looking out uponthe sunlit drillground and the broad sweep of green beyond. He wastoying with his slim hands caressingly. Half a smile was on his lips. No man had ever seen more than that half smile illuminate Shan Tung'sface. His black hair was sleek and carefully trimmed. His dress wasimmaculate. His slimness, as McDowell had noted, was the slimness of ayoung girl. 

When Cruze came to announce that McDowell would see him, Shan Tung wasstill visioning the golden-headed figure of Miriam Kirkstone as he hadseen her passing through the sunshine. There was something like a purrin his breath as he stood interlacing his tapering fingers. The instanthe heard the secretary's footsteps the finger play stopped, the purrdied, the half smile was gone. He turned softly. Cruze did not speak. He simply made a movement of his head, and Shan Tung's feet fellnoiselessly. Only the slight sound made by the opening and closing of adoor gave evidence of his entrance into the Inspector's room. Shan Tungand no other could open and close a door like that. Cruze shivered. Healways shivered when Shan Tung passed him, and always he swore that hecould smell something in the air, like a poison left behind. 

Keith, facing the window, was waiting. The moment the door was opened, he felt Shan Tung's presence. Every nerve in his body was keyed to anuncomfortable tension. The thought that his grip on himself wasweakening, and because of a Chinaman, maddened him. And he must turn. Not to face Shan Tung now would be but a postponement of the ordeal anda confession of cowardice. Forcing his hand into Conniston's littletrick of twisting a mustache, he turned slowly, leveling his eyessquarely to meet Shan Tung's. 

To his surprise Shan Tung seemed utterly oblivious of his presence. Hehad not, apparently, taken more than a casual glance in his direction. In a voice which one beyond the door might have mistaken for a woman's, he was saying to McDowell:

"I have seen the man you sent me to see, Mr. McDowell. It is Larsen. Hehas changed much in eight years. He has grown a beard. He has lost aneye. His hair has whitened. But it is Larsen. " The faultlessness of hisspeech and the unemotional but perfect inflection of his words madeKeith, like the young secretary, shiver where he stood. In McDowell'sface he saw a flash of exultation. 

"He had no suspicion of you, Shan Tung?"

"He did not see me to suspect. He will be there--when--" Slowly hefaced Keith. "--When Mr. Conniston goes to arrest him, " he finished. 

He inclined his head as he backed noiselessly toward the door. Hisyellow eyes did not leave Keith's face. In them Keith fancied that hecaught a sinister gleam. There was the faintest inflection of a newnote in his voice, and his fingers were playing again, but not as whenhe had looked out through the window at Miriam Kirkstone. And then--ina flash, it seemed to Keith--the Chinaman's eyes closed to narrowslits, and the pupils became points of flame no larger than thesharpened ends of a pair of pencils. The last that Keith was consciousof seeing of Shan Tung was the oriental's eyes. They had seemed to draghis soul half out of his body. 

"A queer devil, " said McDowell. "After he is gone, I always feel as ifa snake had been in the room. He still hates you, Conniston. Threeyears have made no difference. He hates you like poison. I believe hewould kill you, if he had a chance to do it and get away with theBusiness. And you--you blooming idiot--simply twiddle your mustache andlaugh at him! I'd feel differently if I were in your boots. "

Inwardly Keith was asking himself why it was that Shan Tung had hatedConniston. 

McDowell added nothing to enlighten him. He was gathering up a numberof papers scattered on his desk, smiling with a grim satisfaction. "It's Larsen all right if Shan Tung says so, " he told Keith. And then, as if he had only thought of the matter, he said, "You're going toreenlist, aren't you, Conniston?"

"I still owe the Service a month or so before my term expires, don't I?After that--yes--I believe I shall reenlist. "

"Good!" approved the Inspector. "I'll have you a sergeancy within amonth. Meanwhile you're off duty and may do anything you please. Youknow Brady, the Company agent? He's up the Mackenzie on a trip, andhere's the key to his shack. I know you'll appreciate getting under areal roof again, and Brady won't object as long as I collect his thirtydollars a month rent. Of course Barracks is open to you, but it justoccurred to me you might prefer this place while on furlough. Everything is there from a bathtub to nutcrackers, and I know a littleJap in town who is hunting a job as a cook. What do you say?"

"Splendid!" cried Keith. "I'll go up at once, and if you'll hustle theJap along, I'll appreciate it. You might tell him to bring up stuff fordinner, " he added. 

McDowell gave him a key. Ten minutes later he was out of sight ofbarracks and climbing a green slope that led to Brady's bungalow. 

In spite of the fact that he had not played his part brilliantly, hebelieved that he had scored a triumph. Andy Duggan had not recognizedhim, and the riverman had been one of his most intimate friends. McDowell had accepted him apparently without a suspicion. And ShanTung--

It was Shan Tung who weighed heavily upon his mind, even as his nervestingled with the thrill of success. He could not get away from thevision of the Chinaman as he had backed through the Inspector's door, the flaming needle-points of his eyes piercing him as he went. It wasnot hatred he had seen in Shan Tung's face. He was sure of that. It wasno emotion that he could describe. It was as if a pair of mechanicaleyes fixed in the head of an amazingly efficient mechanical monster hadfocused themselves on him in those few instants. It made him think ofan X-ray machine. But Shan Tung was human. And he was clever. Givenanother skin, one would not have taken him for what he was. Theimmaculateness of his speech and manners was more than unusual; it waspositively irritating, something which no Chinaman should rightfullypossess. So argued Keith as he went up to Brady's bungalow. 

He tried to throw off the oppression of the thing that was creepingover him, the growing suspicion that he had not passed safely under thebattery of Shan Tung's eyes. With physical things he endeavored tothrust his mental uneasiness into the background. He lighted one of thehalf-dozen cigars McDowell had dropped into his pocket. It was good tofeel a cigar between his teeth again and taste its flavor. At the crestof the slope on which Brady's bungalow stood, he stopped and lookedabout him. Instinctively his eyes turned first to the west. In thatdirection half of the town lay under him, and beyond its edge swept thetimbered slopes, the river, and the green pathways of the plains. Hisheart beat a little faster as he looked. Half a mile away was a tiny, parklike patch of timber, and sheltered there, with the river runningunder it, was the old home. The building was hidden, but through abreak in the trees he could see the top of the old red brick chimneyglowing in the sun, as if beckoning a welcome to him over the treetops. He forgot Shan Tung; he forgot McDowell; he forgot that he wasJohn Keith, the murderer, in the overwhelming sea of loneliness thatswept over him. He looked out into the world that had once been his, and all that he saw was that red brick chimney glowing in the sun, andthe chimney changed until at last it seemed to him like a tombstonerising over the graves of the dead. He turned to the door of thebungalow with a thickening in his throat and his eyes filmed by a mistthrough which for a few moments it was difficult for him to see. 

The bungalow was darkened by drawn curtains when he entered. One afteranother he let them up, and the sun poured in. Brady had left his placein order, and Keith felt about him an atmosphere of cheer that was amighty urge to his flagging spirits. Brady was a home man without awife. The Company's agent had called his place "The Shack" because itwas built entirely of logs, and a woman could not have made it morecomfortable. Keith stood in the big living-room. At one end was astrong fireplace in which kindlings and birch were already laid, waiting the touch of a match. Brady's reading table and his easy chairwere drawn up close; his lounging moccasins were on a footstool; pipes, tobacco, books and magazines littered the table; and out of thischeering disorder rose triumphantly the amber shoulder of a half-filledbottle of Old Rye. 

Keith found himself chuckling. His grin met the lifeless stare of apair of glass eyes in the huge head of an old bull moose over themantel, and after that his gaze rambled over the walls ornamented withmounted heads, pictures, snowshoes, gun-racks and the things which wentto make up the comradeship and business of Brady's picturesque life. Keith could look through into the little dining-room, and beyond thatwas the kitchen. He made an inventory of both and found that McDowellwas right. There were nutcrackers in Brady's establishment. And hefound the bathroom. It was not much larger than a piano box, but thetub was man's size, and Keith raised a window and poked his head out tofind that it was connected with a rainwater tank built by a genius, just high enough to give weight sufficient for a water system and lowenough to gather the rain as it fell from the eaves. He laughedoutright, the sort of laugh that comes out of a man's soul not when heis amused but when he is pleased. By the time he had investigated thetwo bedrooms, he felt a real affection for Brady. He selected theagent's room for his own. Here, too, were pipes and tobacco and booksand magazines, and a reading lamp on a table close to the bedside. Notuntil he had made a closer inspection of the living-room did hediscover that the Shack also had a telephone. 

By that time he noted that the sun had gone out. Driving up from thewest was a mass of storm clouds. He unlocked a door from which he couldlook up the river, and the wind that was riding softly in advance ofthe storm ruffled his hair and cooled his face. In it he caught againthe old fancy--the smells of the vast reaches of unpeopled prairiebeyond the rim of the forest, and the luring chill of the distantmountain tops. Always storm that came down with the river brought tohim voice from the river's end. It came to him from the great mountainsthat were a passion with him; it seemed to thunder to him the oldstories of the mightiest fastnesses of the Rockies and stirred in himthe child-bred yearning to follow up his beloved river until he came atlast to the mystery of its birthplace in the cradle of the westernranges. And now, as he faced the storm, the grip of that desire heldhim like a strong hand. 

The sky blackened swiftly, and with the rumbling of far-away thunder hesaw the lightning slitting the dark heaven like bayonets, and the fireof the electrical charges galloped to him and filled his veins. Hisheart all at once cried out words that his lips did not utter. Whyshould he not answer the call that had come to him through all theyears? Now was the time--and why should he not go? Why tempt fate inthe hazard of a great adventure where home and friends and even hopewere dead to him, when off there beyond the storm was the place of hisdreams? He threw out his arms. His voice broke at last in a cry ofstrange ecstasy. Not everything was gone! Not everything was dead! Overthe graveyard of his past there was sweeping a mighty force that calledhim, something that was no longer merely an urge and a demand but athing that was irresistible. He would go! Tomorrow--today--tonight--hewould begin making plans!

He watched the deluge as it came on with a roar of wind, a beating, hissing wall under which the tree tops down in the edge of the plainbent their heads like a multitude of people in prayer. He saw itsweeping up the slope in a mass of gray dragoons. It caught him beforehe had closed the door, and his face dripped with wet as he forced thelast inch of it against the wind with his shoulder. It was the sort ofstorm Keith liked. The thunder was the rumble of a million giantcartwheels rolling overhead. 

Inside the bungalow it was growing dark as though evening had come. Hedropped on his knees before the pile of dry fuel in the fireplace andstruck a match. For a space the blaze smoldered; then the birch firedup like oil-soaked tinder, and a yellow flame crackled and roared upthe flue. Keith was sensitive in the matter of smoking other people'spipes, so he drew out his own and filled it with Brady's tobacco. Itwas an English mixture, rich and aromatic, and as the fire burnedbrighter and the scent of the tobacco filled the room, he dropped intoBrady's big lounging chair and stretched out his legs with a deepbreath of satisfaction. His thoughts wandered to the clash of thestorm. He would have a place like this out there in the mystery of thetrackless mountains, where the Saskatchewan was born. He would build itlike Brady's place, even to the rain-water tank midway between the roofand the ground. And after a few years no one would remember that a mannamed John Keith had ever lived. 

Something brought him suddenly to his feet. It was the ringing of thetelephone. After four years the sound was one that roused with anuncomfortable jump every nerve in his body. Probably it was McDowellcalling up about the Jap or to ask how he liked the place. Probably--itwas that. He repeated the thought aloud as he laid his pipe on thetable. And yet as his hand came in contact with the telephone, he feltan inclination to draw back. A subtle voice whispered him not toanswer, to leave while the storm was dark, to go back into thewilderness, to fight his way to the western mountains. 

With a jerk he unhooked the receiver and put it to his ear. 

It was not McDowell who answered him. It was not Shan Tung. To hisamazement, coming to him through the tumult of the storm, he recognizedthe voice of Miriam Kirkstone!

VII

Why should Miriam Kirkstone call him up in an hour when the sky waslivid with the flash of lightning and the earth trembled with the rollof thunder? This was the question that filled Keith's mind as helistened to the voice at the other end of the wire. It was pitched to ahigh treble as if unconsciously the speaker feared that the storm mightbreak in upon her words. She was telling him that she had telephonedMcDowell but had been too late to catch him before he left for Brady'sbungalow; she was asking him to pardon her for intruding upon his timeso soon after his return, but she was sure that he would understandher. She wanted him to come up to see her that evening at eighto'clock. It was important--to her. Would he come?

Before Keith had taken a moment to consult with himself he had repliedthat he would. He heard her "thank you, " her "good-by, " and hung up thereceiver, stunned. So far as he could remember, he had spoken no morethan seven words. The beautiful young woman up at the Kirkstone mansionhad clearly betrayed her fear of the lightning by winding up herbusiness with him at the earliest possible moment. Why, then, had shenot waited until the storm was over?

A pounding at the door interrupted his thought. He went to it andadmitted an individual who, in spite of his water-soaked condition, wassmiling all over. It was Wallie, the Jap. He was no larger than a boyof sixteen, and from eyes, ears, nose, and hair he was drippingstreams, while his coat bulged with packages which he had struggled toprotect, from the torrent through which he had forced his way up thehill. Keith liked him on the instant. He found himself powerless toresist the infection of Wallie's grin, and as Wallie hustled into thekitchen like a wet spaniel, he followed and helped him unload. By thetime the little Jap had disgorged his last package, he had assuredKeith that the rain was nice, that his name was Wallie, that heexpected five dollars a week and could cook "like heaven. " Keithlaughed outright, and Wallie was so delighted with the general outlookthat he fairly kicked his heels together. Thereafter for an hour or sohe was left alone in possession of the kitchen, and shortly Keith beganto hear certain sounds and catch occasional odoriferous whiffs whichassured him that Wallie was losing no time in demonstrating his divineefficiency in the matter of cooking. 

Wallie's coming gave him an excuse to call up McDowell. He confessed toa disquieting desire to hear the inspector's voice again. In the backof his head was the fear of Shan Tung, and the hope that McDowell mightthrow some light on Miriam Kirkstone's unusual request to see her thatnight. The storm had settled down into a steady drizzle when he got intouch with him, and he was relieved to find there was no change in thefriendliness of the voice that came over the telephone. If Shan Tunghad a suspicion, he had kept it to himself. 

To Keith's surprise it was McDowell who spoke first of Miss Kirkstone. 

"She seemed unusually anxious to get in touch with you, " he said. "I amfrankly disturbed over a certain matter, Conniston, and I should liketo talk with you before you go up tonight. "

Keith sniffed the air. "Wallie is going to ring the dinner bell withinhalf an hour. Why not slip on a raincoat and join me up here? I thinkit's going to be pretty good. "

"I'll come, " said McDowell. "Expect me any moment. "

Fifteen minutes later Keith was helping him off with his wet slicker. He had expected McDowell to make some observation on the cheerfulnessof the birch fire and the agreeable aromas that were leaking fromWallie's kitchen, but the inspector disappointed him. He stood for afew moments with his back to the fire, thumbing down the tobacco in hispipe, and he made no effort to conceal the fact that there wassomething in his mind more important than dinner and the cheer of agrate. 

His eyes fell on the telephone, and he nodded toward it. "Seemed veryanxious to see you, didn't she, Conniston? I mean Miss Kirkstone. "

"Rather. "

McDowell seated himself and lighted a match. "Seemed--alittle--nervous--perhaps, " he suggested between puffs. "As thoughsomething had happened--or was going to happen. Don't mind myquestioning you, do you, Derry?"

"Not a bit, " said Keith. "You see, I thought perhaps you mightexplain--"

There was a disquieting gleam in McDowell's eyes. "It was odd that sheshould call you up so soon--and in the storm--wasn't it? She expectedto find you at my office. I could fairly hear the lightning hissingalong the wires. She must have been under some unusual impulse. "

"Perhaps. "

McDowell was silent for a space, looking steadily at Keith, as ifmeasuring him up to something. 

"I don't mind telling you that I am very deeply interested in MissKirkstone, " he said. "You didn't see her when the Judge was killed. Shewas away at school, and you were on John Keith's trail when shereturned. I have never been much of a woman's man, Conniston, but Itell you frankly that up until six or eight months ago Miriam was oneof the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. I would give a good dealto know the exact hour and date when the change in her began. I mightbe able to trace some event to that date. It was six months ago thatshe began to take an interest in the fate of John Keith. Since then thechange in her has alarmed me, Conniston. I don't understand. She hasbetrayed nothing. But I have seen her dying by inches under my eyes. She is only a pale and drooping flower compared with what she was. I ampositive it is not a sickness--unless it is mental. I have a suspicion. It is almost too terrible to put into words. You will be going up theretonight--you will be alone with her, will talk with her, may learn agreat deal if you understand what it is that is eating like a canker inmy mind. Will you help me to discover her secret?" He leaned towardKeith. He was no longer the man of iron. There was something intenselyhuman in his face. 

"There is no other man on earth I would confide this matter to, " hewent on slowly. "It will take--a gentleman--to handle it, someone whois big enough to forget if my suspicion is untrue, and who willunderstand fully what sacrilege means should it prove true. It isextremely delicate. I hesitate. And yet--I am waiting, Conniston. Is itnecessary to ask you to pledge secrecy in the matter?"

Keith held out a hand. McDowell gripped it tight. 

"It is--Shan Tung, " he said, a peculiar hiss in his voice. "ShanTung--and Miriam Kirkstone! Do you understand, Conniston? Does thehorror of it get hold of you? Can you make yourself believe that it ispossible? Am I mad to allow such a suspicion to creep into my brain?Shan Tung--Miriam Kirkstone! And she sees herself standing now at thevery edge of the pit of hell, and it is killing her. "

Keith felt his blood running cold as he saw in the inspector's face thething which he did not put more plainly in word. He was shocked. Hedrew his hand from McDowell's grip almost fiercely. 

"Impossible!" he cried. "Yes, you are mad. Such a thing would beinconceivable!"

"And yet I have told myself that it is possible, " said McDowell. Hisface was returning into its iron-like mask. His two hands gripped thearms of his chair, and he stared at Keith again as if he were lookingthrough him at something else, and to that something else he seemed tospeak, slowly, weighing and measuring each word before it passed hislips. "I am not superstitious. It has always been a law with me to haveconviction forced upon me. I do not believe unusual things untilinvestigation proves them. I am making an exception in the case of ShanTung. I have never regarded him as a man, like you and me, but as asort of superphysical human machine possessed of a certainpsychological power that is at times almost deadly. Do you begin tounderstand me? I believe that he has exerted the whole force of thatinfluence upon Miriam Kirkstone--and she has surrendered to it. Ibelieve--and yet I am not positive. "

"And you have watched them for six months?"

"No. The suspicion came less than a month ago. No one that I know hasever had the opportunity of looking into Shan Tung's private life. Thequarters behind his cafe are a mystery. I suppose they can be enteredfrom the cafe and also from a little stairway at the rear. Onenight--very late--I saw Miriam Kirkstone come down that stairway. Twicein the last month she has visited Shan Tung at a late hour. Twice thatI know of, you understand. And that is not all--quite. "

Keith saw the distended veins in McDowell's clenched hands, and he knewthat he was speaking under a tremendous strain. 

"I watched the Kirkstone home--personally. Three times in that samemonth Shan Tung visited her there. The third time I entered boldly witha fraud message for the girl. I remained with her for an hour. In thattime I saw nothing and heard nothing of Shan Tung. He was hiding--orgot out as I came in. "

Keith was visioning Miriam Kirkstone as he had seen her in theinspector's office. He recalled vividly the slim, golden beauty of her, the wonderful gray of her eyes, and the shimmer of her hair as shestood in the light of the window--and then he saw Shan Tung, effeminate, with his sly, creeping hands and his narrowed eyes, and thething which McDowell had suggested rose up before him a monstrousimpossibility. 

"Why don't you demand an explanation of Miss Kirkstone?" he asked. 

"I have, and she denies it all absolutely, except that Shan Tung cameto her house once to see her brother. She says that she was never onthe little stairway back of Shan Tung's place. "

"And you do not believe her?"

"Assuredly not. I saw her. To speak the cold truth, Conniston, she islying magnificently to cover up something which she does not want anyother person on earth to know. "

Keith leaned forward suddenly. "And why is it that John Keith, dead andburied, should have anything to do with this?" he demanded. "Why didthis 'intense interest' you speak of in John Keith begin at about thesame time your suspicions began to include Shan Tung?"

McDowell shook his head. "It may be that her interest was not so muchin John Keith as in you, Conniston. That is for you todiscover--tonight. It is an interesting situation. It has tragicpossibilities. The instant you substantiate my suspicions we'll dealdirectly with Shan Tung. Just now--there's Wallie behind you grinninglike a Cheshire cat. His dinner must be a success. "

The diminutive Jap had noiselessly opened the door of the littledining-room in which the table was set for two. 

Keith smiled as he sat down opposite the man who would have sent him tothe executioner had he known the truth. After all, it was but a stepfrom comedy to tragedy. And just now he was conscious of a bit ofgrisly humor in the situation. 

VIII

The storm had settled into a steady drizzle when McDowell left theShack at two o'clock. Keith watched the iron man, as his tall, grayfigure faded away into the mist down the slope, with a curiousundercurrent of emotion. Before the inspector had come up as his guesthe had, he thought, definitely decided his future action. He would gowest on his furlough, write McDowell that he had decided not toreenlist, and bury himself in the British Columbia mountains before ananswer could get back to him, leaving the impression that he was goingon to Australia or Japan. He was not so sure of himself now. He foundhimself looking ahead to the night, when he would see Miriam Kirkstone, and he no longer feared Shan Tung as he had feared him a few hoursbefore. McDowell himself had given him new weapons. He was unofficiallyon Shan Tung's trail. McDowell had frankly placed the affair of MiriamKirkstone in his hands. That it all had in some mysterious waysomething to do with himself--John Keith--urged him on to the adventure. 

He waited impatiently for the evening. Wallie, smothered in a greatraincoat, he sent forth on a general foraging expedition and to bringup some of Conniston's clothes. It was a quarter of eight when he leftfor Miriam Kirkstone's home. 

Even at that early hour the night lay about him heavy and dark andsaturated with a heavy mist. From the summit of the hill he could nolonger make out the valley of the Saskatchewan. He walked down into apit in which the scattered lights of the town burned dully like distantstars. It was a little after eight when he came to the Kirkstone house. It was set well back in an iron-fenced area thick with trees andshrubbery, and he saw that the porch light was burning to show him theway. Curtains were drawn, but a glow of warm light lay behind them. 

He was sure that Miriam Kirkstone must have heard the crunch of hisfeet on the gravel walk, for he had scarcely touched the old-fashionedknocker on the door when the door itself was opened. It was Miriam whogreeted him. Again he held her hand for a moment in his own. 

It was not cold, as it had been in McDowell's office. It was almostfeverishly hot, and the pupils of the girl's eyes were big, and dark, and filled with a luminous fire. Keith might have thought that comingin out of the dark night he had startled her. But it was not that. Shewas repressing something that had preceded him. He thought that heheard the almost noiseless closing of a door at the end of the longhall, and his nostrils caught the faint aroma of a strange perfume. Between him and the light hung a filmy veil of smoke. He knew that ithad come from a cigarette. There was an uneasy note in Miss Kirkstone'svoice as she invited him to hang his coat and hat on an old-fashionedrack near the door. He took his time, trying to recall where he haddetected that perfume before. He remembered, with a sort of shock. Itwas after Shan Tung had left McDowell's office. 

She was smiling when he turned, and apologizing again for making herunusual request that day. 

"It was--quite unconventional. But I felt that you would understand, Mr. Conniston. I guess I didn't stop to think. And I am afraid oflightning, too. But I wanted to see you. I didn't want to wait untiltomorrow to hear about what happened up there. Is it--so strange?"

Afterward he could not remember just what sort of answer he made. Sheturned, and he followed her through the big, square-cut door leadingout of the hall. It was the same door with the great, sliding panel hehad locked on that fateful night, years ago, when he had fought withher father and brother. In it, for a moment, her slim figure wasprofiled in a frame of vivid light. Her mother must have beenbeautiful. That was the thought that flashed upon him as the room andits tragic memory lay before him. Everything came back to him vividly, and he was astonished at the few changes in it. There was the big chairwith its leather arms, in which the overfatted creature who had beenher father was sitting when he came in. It was the same table, too, andit seemed to him that the same odds and ends were on the mantel overthe cobblestone fireplace. And there was somebody's picture of theMadonna still hanging between two windows. The Madonna, like the masterof the house, had been too fat to be beautiful. The son, an ogreishpattern of his father, had stood with his back to the Madonna, whoseoverfat arms had seemed to rest on his shoulders. He remembered that. 

The girl was watching him closely when he turned toward her. He hadfrankly looked the room over, without concealing his intention. She wasbreathing a little unsteadily, and her hair was shimmering gloriouslyin the light of an overhead chandelier. She sat down with that lightover her, motioning him to be seated opposite her--across the sametable from which he had snatched the copper weight that had killedKirkstone. He had never seen anything quite so steady, quite sobeautiful as her eyes when they looked across at him. He thought ofMcDowell's suspicion and of Shan Tung and gripped himself hard. Thesame strange perfume hung subtly on the air he was breathing. On asmall silver tray at his elbow lay the ends of three freshly burnedcigarettes. 

"Of course you remember this room?"

He nodded. "Yes. It was night when I came, like this. The next day Iwent after John Keith. "

She leaned toward him, her hands clasped in front of her on the table. "You will tell me the truth about John Keith?" she asked in a low, tense voice. "You swear that it will be the truth?"

"I will keep nothing back from you that I have told InspectorMcDowell, " he answered, fighting to meet her eyes steadily. "I almostbelieve I may tell you more. "

"Then--did you speak the truth when you reported to Inspector McDowell?IS JOHN KEITH DEAD?" Could Shan Tung meet those wonderful eyes as hewas meeting them now, he wondered? Could he face them and master them, as McDowell had hinted? To McDowell the lie had come easily to histongue. It stuck in his throat now. Without giving him time to preparehimself the girl had shot straight for the bull's-eye, straight to theheart of the thing that meant life or death to him, and for a moment hefound no answer. Clearly he was facing suspicion. She could not havedriven the shaft intuitively. The unexpectedness of the thingastonished him and then thrilled him, and in the thrill of it he foundhimself more than ever master of himself. 

"Would you like to hear how utterly John Keith is dead and how hedied?" he asked. 

"Yes. That is what I must know. "

He noticed that her hands had closed. Her slender fingers were clenchedtight. 

"I hesitate, because I have almost promised to tell you even more thanI told McDowell, " he went on. "And that will not be pleasant for you tohear. He killed your father. There can be no sympathy in your heart forJohn Keith. It will not be pleasant for you to hear that I liked theman, and that I am sorry he is dead. "

"Go on--please. "

Her hands unclasped. Her fingers lay limp. Something faded slowly outof her face. It was as if she had hoped for something, and that hopewas dying. Could it be possible that she had hoped he would say thatJohn Keith was alive?

"Did you know this man?" he asked. 

"This John Keith?"

She shook her head. "No. I was away at school for many years. I don'tremember him. "

"But he knew you--that is, he had seen you, " said Keith. "He used totalk to me about you in those days when he was helpless and dying. Hesaid that he was sorry for you, and that only because of you did heever regret the justice he brought upon your father. You see I speakhis words. He called it justice. He never weakened on that point. Youhave probably never heard his part of the story. "

"No. "

The one word forced itself from her lips. She was expecting him to goon, and waited, her eyes never for an instant leaving his face. 

He did not repeat the story exactly as he had told it to McDowell. Thefacts were the same, but the living fire of his own sympathy and hisown conviction were in them now. He told it purely from Keith's pointof view, and Miriam Kirkstone's face grew whiter, and her hands grewtense again, as she listened for the first time to Keith's own versionof the tragedy of the room in which they were sitting. And then hefollowed Keith up into that land of ice and snow and gibbering Eskimos, and from that moment he was no longer Keith but spoke with the lips ofConniston. He described the sunless weeks and months of madness untilthe girl's eyes seemed to catch fire, and when at last he came to thelittle cabin in which Conniston had died, he was again John Keith. Hecould not have talked about himself as he did about the Englishman. Andwhen he came to the point where he buried Conniston under the floor, adry, broken sob broke in upon him from across the table. But there wereno tears in the girl's eyes. Tears, perhaps, would have hidden from himthe desolation he saw there. But she did not give in. Her white throattwitched. She tried to draw her breath steadily. And then she said:

"And that--was John Keith!"

He bowed his head in confirmation of the lie, and, thinking ofConniston, he said:

"He was the finest gentleman I ever knew. And I am sorry he is dead. "

"And I, too, am sorry. "

She was reaching a hand across the table to him, slowly, hesitatingly. He stared at her. 

"You mean that?"

"Yes, I am sorry. "

He took her hand. For a moment her fingers tightened about his own. Then they relaxed and drew gently away from him. In that moment he sawa sudden change come into her face. She was looking beyond him, overhis right shoulder. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilated under hisgaze, and she held her breath. With the swift caution of the man-huntedhe turned. The room was empty behind him. There was nothing but awindow at his back. The rain was drizzling against it, and he noticedthat the curtain was not drawn, as they were drawn at the otherwindows. Even as he looked, the girl went to it and pulled down theshade. He knew that she had seen something, something that had startledher for a moment, but he did not question her. Instead, as if he hadnoticed nothing, he asked if he might light a cigar. 

"I see someone smokes, " he excused himself, nodding at the cigarettebutts. 

He was watching her closely and would have recalled the words in thenext breath. He had caught her. Her brother was out of town. And therewas a distinctly unAmerican perfume in the smoke that someone had leftin the room. He saw the bit of red creeping up her throat into hercheeks, and his conscience shamed him. It was difficult for him not tobelieve McDowell now. Shan Tung had been there. It was Shan Tung whohad left the hall as he entered. Probably it was Shan Tung whose faceshe had seen at the window. 

What she said amazed him. "Yes, it is a shocking habit of mine, Mr. Conniston. I learned to smoke in the East. Is it so very bad, do youthink?"

He fairly shook himself. He wanted to say, "You beautiful little liar, I'd like to call your bluff right now, but I won't, because I'm sorryfor you!" Instead, he nipped off the end of his cigar, and said:

"In England, you know, the ladies smoke a great deal. Personally I maybe a little prejudiced. I don't know that it is sinful, especially whenone uses such good judgment--in orientals. " And then he was powerlessto hold himself back. He smiled at her frankly, unafraid. "I don'tbelieve you smoke, " he added. 

He rose to his feet, still smiling across at her, like a big brotherwaiting for her confidence. She was not alarmed at the directness withwhich he had guessed the truth. She was no longer embarrassed. Sheseemed for a moment to be looking through him and into him, a strangeand yearning desire glowing dully in her eyes. He saw her throattwitching again, and he was filled with an infinite compassion for thisdaughter of the man he had killed. But he kept it within himself. Hehad gone far enough. It was for her to speak. At the door she gave himher hand again, bidding him good-night. She looked patheticallyhelpless, and he thought that someone ought to be there with the rightto take her in his arms and comfort her. 

"You will come again?" she whispered. 

"Yes, I am coming again, " he said. "Good-night. "

He passed out into the drizzle. The door closed behind him, but notbefore there came to him once more that choking sob from the throat ofMiriam Kirkstone. 

IX

Keith's hand was on the butt of his revolver as he made his way throughthe black night. He could not see the gravel path under his feet butcould only feel it. Something that was more than a guess made him feelthat Shan Tung was not far away, and he wondered if it was apremonition, and what it meant. With the keen instinct of a hound hewas scenting for a personal danger. He passed through the gate andbegan the downward slope toward town, and not until then did he beginadding things together and analyzing the situation as it hadtransformed itself since he had stood in the door of the Shack, welcoming the storm from the western mountains. He thought that he haddefinitely made up his mind then; now it was chaotic. He could notleave Prince Albert immediately, as the inspiration had moved him a fewhours before. McDowell had practically given him an assignment. AndMiss Kirkstone was holding him. Also Shan Tung. He felt within himselfthe sensation of one who was traveling on very thin ice, yet he couldnot tell just where or why it was thin. 

"Just a fool hunch, " he assured himself. 

"Why the deuce should I let a confounded Chinaman and a pretty girl geton my nerves at this stage of the game? If it wasn't for McDowell--"

And there he stopped. He had fought too long at the raw edge of thingsto allow himself to be persuaded by delusions, and he confessed that itwas John Keith who was holding him, that in some inexplicable way JohnKeith, though officially dead and buried, was mixed up in a mysteriousaffair in which Miriam Kirkstone and Shan Tung were the moving factors. And inasmuch as he was now Derwent Conniston and no longer John Keith, he took the logical point of arguing that the affair was none of hisbusiness, and that he could go on to the mountains if he pleased. Onlyin that direction could he see ice of a sane and perfect thickness, tocarry out the metaphor in his head. He could report indifferently toMcDowell, forget Miss Kirkstone, and disappear from the menace of ShanTung's eyes. John Keith, he repeated, would be officially dead, andbeing dead, the law would have no further interest in him. 

He prodded himself on with this thought as he fumbled his way throughdarkness down into town. Miriam Kirkstone in her golden way wasalluring; the mystery that shadowed the big house on the hill wasfascinating to his hunting instincts; he had the desire, growing fast, to come at grips with Shan Tung. But he had not foreseen these things, and neither had Conniston foreseen them. They had planned only for thesalvation of John Keith's precious neck, and tonight he had almostforgotten the existence of that unpleasant reality, the hangman. Truthsettled upon him with depressing effect, and an infinite lonelinessturned his mind again to the mountains of his dreams. 

The town was empty of life. Lights glowed here and there through themist; now and then a door opened; down near the river a dog howledforlornly. Everything was shut against him. There were no longer homeswhere he might call and be greeted with a cheery "Good evening, Keith. Glad to see you. Come in out of the wet. " He could not even go toDuggan, his old river friend. He realized now that his old friends werethe very ones he must avoid most carefully to escape self-betrayal. Friendship no longer existed for him; the town was a desert without anoasis where he might reclaim some of the things he had lost. Memorieshe had treasured gave place to bitter ones. His own townfolk, of allpeople, were his readiest enemies, and his loneliness clutched himtighter, until the air itself seemed thick and difficult to breathe. For the time Derwent Conniston was utterly submerged in theoverwhelming yearnings of John Keith. 

He dropped into a dimly lighted shop to purchase a box of cigars. Itwas deserted except for the proprietor. His elbow bumped into atelephone. He would call up Wallie and tell him to have a good firewaiting for him, and in the company of that fire he would do a lot ofthinking before getting into communication with McDowell. 

It was not Wallie who answered him, and he was about to apologize forgetting the wrong number when the voice at the other end asked, "Is that you, Conniston?"

It was McDowell. The discovery gave him a distinct shock. What couldthe Inspector be doing up at the Shack in his absence? Besides, therewas an imperative demand in the question that shot at him over thewire. McDowell had half shouted it. 

"Yes, it's I, " he said rather feebly. 

"I'm down-town, stocking up on some cigars. What's the excitement?"

"Don't ask questions but hustle up here, " McDowell fired back. "I'vegot the surprise of your life waiting for you!"

Keith heard the receiver at the other end go up with a bang. Somethinghad happened at the Shack, and McDowell was excited. He went outpuzzled. For some reason he was in no great hurry to reach the top ofthe hill. He was beginning to expect things to happen--too manythings--and in the stress of the moment he felt the incongruity of thefriendly box of cigars tucked under his arm. The hardest luck he hadever run up against had never quite killed his sense of humor, and hechuckled. His fortunes were indeed at a low ebb when he found a bit ofcomfort in hugging a box of cigars still closer. 

He could see that every room in the Shack was lighted, when he came tothe crest of the slope, but the shades were drawn. He wondered ifWallie had pulled down the curtains, or if it was a caution onMcDowell's part against possible espionage. Suspicion made him transferthe box of cigars to his left arm so that his right was free. Somewherein the darkness Conniston's voice was urging him, as it had urged himup in the cabin on the Barren: "Don't walk into a noose. If it comes toa fight, FIGHT!"

And then something happened that brought his heart to a dead stop. Hewas close to the door. His ear was against it. And he was listening toa voice. It was not Wallie's, and it was not the iron man's. It was awoman's voice, or a girl's. 

He opened the door and entered, taking swiftly the two or three stepsthat carried him across the tiny vestibule to the big room. Hisentrance was so sudden that the tableau in front of him was unbrokenfor a moment. Birch logs were blazing in the fireplace. In the bigchair sat McDowell, partly turned, a smoking cigar poised in hisfingers, staring at him. Seated on a footstool, with her chin in thecup of her hands, was a girl. At first, blinded a little by the light, Keith thought she was a child, a remarkably pretty child withwide-open, half-startled eyes and a wonderful crown of glowing, brownhair in which he could still see the shimmer of wet. He took off hishat and brushed the water from his eyes. McDowell did not move. Slowlythe girl rose to her feet. It was then that Keith saw she was not achild. Perhaps she was eighteen, a slim, tired-looking, little thing, wonderfully pretty, and either on the verge of laughing or crying. Perhaps it was halfway between. To his growing discomfiture she cameslowly toward him with a strange and wonderful look in her face. AndMcDowell still sat there staring. 

His heart thumped with an emotion he had no time to question. In thosewide-open, shining eyes of the girl he sensed unspeakable tragedy--forhim. And then the girl's arms were reaching out to him, and she wascrying in that voice that trembled and broke between sobs and laughter:

"Derry, don't you know me? Don't you know me?"

He stood like one upon whom had fallen the curse of the dumb. She waswithin arm's reach of him, her face white as a cameo, her eyes glowinglike newly-fired stars, her slim throat quivering, and her armsreaching toward him. 

"Derry, don't you know me? DON'T YOU KNOW ME?"

It was a sob, a cry. McDowell had risen. Overwhelmingly there sweptupon Keith an impulse that rocked him to the depth of his soul. Heopened his arms, and in an instant the girl was in them. Quivering, andsobbing, and laughing she was on his breast. He felt the crush of hersoft hair against his face, her arms were about his neck, and she waspulling his head down and kissing him--not once or twice, but again andagain, passionately and without shame. His own arms tightened. He heardMcDowell's voice--a distant and non-essential voice it seemed to himnow--saying that he would leave them alone and that he would see themagain tomorrow. He heard the door open and close. McDowell was gone. And the soft little arms were still tight about his neck. The sweetcrush of hair smothered his face, and on his breast she was crying nowlike a baby. He held her closer. A wild exultation seized upon him, andevery fiber in his body responded to its thrill, as tautly-stretchedwires respond to an electrical storm. It passed swiftly, burning itselfout, and his heart was left dead. He heard a sound made by Wallie outin the kitchen. He saw the walls of the room again, the chair in whichMcDowell had sat, the blazing fire. His arms relaxed. The girl raisedher head and put her two hands to his face, looking at him with eyeswhich Keith no longer failed to recognize. They were the eyes that hadlooked at him out of the faded picture in Conniston's watch. 

"Kiss me, Derry!"

It was impossible not to obey. Her lips clung to him. There was love, adoration, in their caress. 

And then she was crying again, with her arms around him tight and herface hidden against him, and he picked her up as he would have lifted achild, and carried her to the big chair in front of the fire. He puther in it and stood before her, trying to smile. Her hair had loosened, and the shining mass of it had fallen about her face and to hershoulders. She was more than ever like a little girl as she looked upat him, her eyes worshiping him, her lips trying to smile, and onelittle hand dabbing her eyes with a tiny handkerchief that was alreadywet and crushed. 

"You--you don't seem very glad to see me, Derry. "

"I--I'm just stunned, " he managed to say. "You see--"

"It IS a shocking surprise, Derry. I meant it to be. I've been planningit for years and years and YEARS! Please take off your coat--it'sdripping wet!--and sit down near me, on that stool!"

Again he obeyed. He was big for the stool. 

"You are glad to see me, aren't you, Derry?"

She was leaning over the edge of the big chair, and one of her handswent to his damp hair, brushing it back. It was a wonderful touch. Hehad never felt anything like it before in his life, and involuntarilyhe bent his head a little. In a moment she had hugged it up close toher. 

"You ARE glad, aren't you, Derry? Say 'yes. '"

"Yes, " he whispered. 

He could feel the swift, excited beating of her heart. 

"And I'm never going back again--to THEM, " he heard her say, somethingsuddenly low and fierce in her voice. "NEVER! I'm going to stay withyou always, Derry. Always!"

She put her lips close to his ear and whispered mysteriously. "Theydon't know where I am. Maybe they think I'm dead. But ColonelReppington knows. I told him I was coming if I had to walk round theworld to get here. He said he'd keep my secret, and gave me letters tosome awfully nice people over here. I've been over six months. And whenI saw your name in one of those dry-looking, blue-covered, paper booksthe Mounted Police get out, I just dropped down on my knees and thankedthe good Lord, Derry. I knew I'd find you somewhere--sometime. Ihaven't slept two winks since leaving Montreal! And I guess I reallyfrightened that big man with the terrible mustaches, for when I rushedin on him tonight, dripping wet, and said, 'I'm Miss Mary JosephineConniston, and I want my brother, ' his eyes grew bigger and biggeruntil I thought they were surely going to pop out at me. And then heswore. He said, 'My Gawd, I didn't know he had a sister!'"

Keith's heart was choking him. So this wonderful little creature wasDerwent Conniston's sister! And she was claiming him. She thought hewas her brother!

"--And I love him because he treated me so nicely, " she was saying. "Hereally hugged me, Derry. I guess he didn't think I was away pasteighteen. And he wrapped me up in a big oilskin, and we came up here. And--O Derry, Derry--why did you do it? Why didn't you let me know?Don't you--want me here?"

He heard, but his mind had swept beyond her to the little cabin in theedge of the Great Barren where Derwent Conniston lay dead. He heard thewind moaning, as it had moaned that night the Englishman died, and hesaw again that last and unspoken yearning in Conniston's eyes. And heknew now why Conniston's face had followed him through the gray gloomand why he had felt the mysterious presence of him long after he hadgone. Something that was Conniston entered into him now. In thethrobbing chaos of his brain a voice was whispering, "She is yours, sheis yours. "

His arms tightened about her, and a voice that was not unlike JohnKeith's voice said: "Yes, I want you! I want you!"

X

For a space Keith did not raise his head. The girl's arms were abouthim close, and he could feel the warm pressure of her cheek against hishair. The realization of his crime was already weighing his soul like apiece of lead, yet out of that soul had come the cry, "I want you--Iwant you!" and it still beat with the voice of that immeasurableyearning even as his lips grew tight and he saw himself the monstrousfraud he was. This strange little, wonderful creature had come to himfrom out of a dead world, and her lips, and her arms, and the softcaress of her hands had sent his own world reeling about his head soswiftly that he had been drawn into a maelstrom to which he could findno bottom. Before McDowell she had claimed him. And before McDowell hehad accepted her. He had lived the great lie as he had strengthenedhimself to live it, but success was no longer a triumph. There rushedinto his brain like a consuming flame the desire to confess the truth, to tell this girl whose arms were about him that he was not DerwentConniston, her brother, but John Keith, the murderer. Something droveit back, something that was still more potent, more demanding, theoverwhelming urge of that fighting force in every man which calls forself-preservation. 

Slowly he drew himself away from her, knowing that for this night atleast his back was to the wall. She was smiling at him from out of thebig chair, and in spite of himself he smiled back at her. 

"I must send you to bed now, Mary Josephine, and tomorrow we will talkeverything over, " he said. "You're so tired you're ready to fall asleepin a minute. "

Tiny, puckery lines came into her pretty forehead. It was a trick heloved at first sight. 

"Do you know, Derry, I almost believe you've changed a lot. You used tocall me 'Juddy. ' But now that I'm grown up, I think I like MaryJosephine better, though you oughtn't to be quite so stiff about it. Derry, tell me honest--are you AFRAID of me?"

"Afraid of you!"

"Yes, because I'm grown up. Don't you like me as well as you did one, two, three, seven years ago? If you did, you wouldn't tell me to go tobed just a few minutes after you've seen me for the first time in allthose--those--Derry, I'm going to cry! I AM!"

"Don't, " he pleaded. "Please don't!"

He felt like a hundred-horned bull in a very small china shop. MaryJosephine herself saved the day for him by jumping suddenly from thebig chair, forcing him into it, and snuggling herself on his knees. 

"There!" She looked at a tiny watch on her wrist. "We're going to bedin two hours. We've got a lot to talk about that won't wait untiltomorrow, Derry. You understand what I mean. I couldn't sleep untilyou've told me. And you must tell me the truth. I'll love you just thesame, no matter what it is. Derry, Derry, WHY DID YOU DO IT?"

"Do what?" he asked stupidly. 

The delicious softness went out of the slim little body on his knees. It grew rigid. He looked hopelessly into the fire, but he could feelthe burning inquiry in the girl's eyes. He sensed a swift changepassing through her. She seemed scarcely to breathe, and he knew thathis answer had been more than inadequate. It either confessed orfeigned an ignorance of something which it would have been impossiblefor him to forget had he been Conniston. He looked up at her at last. The joyous flush had gone out of her face. It was a little drawn. Herhand, which had been snuggling his neck caressingly, slipped down fromhis shoulder. 

"I guess--you'd rather I hadn't come, Derry, " she said, fighting tokeep a break out of her voice. "And I'll go back, if you want to sendme. But I've always dreamed of your promise, that some day you'd sendfor me or come and get me, and I'd like to know WHY before you tell meto go. Why have you hidden away from me all these years, leaving meamong those who you knew hated me as they hated you? Was it because youdidn't care? Or was it because--because--" She bent her head andwhispered strangely, "Was it because you were afraid?"

"Afraid?" he repeated slowly, staring again into the fire. "Afraid--"He was going to add "Of what?" but caught the words and held them back. 

The birch fire leaped up with a sudden roar into the chimney, and fromthe heart of the flame he caught again that strange and all-pervadingthrill, the sensation of Derwent Conniston's presence very near to him. It seemed to him that for an instant he caught a flash of Conniston'sface, and somewhere within him was a whispering which was Conniston'svoice. He was possessed by a weird and masterful force that swept overhim and conquered him, a thing that was more than intuition and greaterthan physical desire. It was inspiration. He knew that the Englishmanwould have him play the game as he was about to play it now. 

The girl was waiting for him to answer. Her lips had grown a littlemore tense. His hesitation, the restraint in his welcome of her, andhis apparent desire to evade that mysterious something which seemed tomean so much to her had brought a shining pain into her eyes. He hadseen such a look in the eyes of creatures physically hurt. He reachedout with his hands and brushed back the thick, soft hair from about herface. His fingers buried themselves in the silken disarray, and helooked for a moment straight into her eyes before he spoke. 

"Little girl, will you tell me the truth?" he asked. "Do I look likethe old Derwent Conniston, YOUR Derwent Conniston? Do I?"

Her voice was small and troubled, yet the pain was slowly fading out ofher eyes as she felt the passionate embrace of his fingers in her hair. "No. You are changed. "

"Yes, I am changed. A part of Derwent Conniston died seven years ago. That part of him was dead until he came through that door tonight andsaw you. And then it flickered back into life. It is returning slowly, slowly. That which was dead is beginning to rouse itself, beginning toremember. See, little Mary Josephine. It was this!"

He drew a hand to his forehead and placed a finger on the scar. "I gotthat seven years ago. It killed a half of Derwent Conniston, the partthat should have lived. Do you understand? Until tonight--"

Her eyes startled him, they were growing so big and dark and staring, living fires of understanding and horror. It was hard for him to go onwith the lie. "For many weeks I was dead, " he struggled on. "And when Icame to life physically, I had forgotten a great deal. I had my name, my identity, but only ghastly dreams and visions of what had gonebefore. I remembered you, but it was in a dream, a strange and hauntingdream that was with me always. It seems to me that for an age I havebeen seeking for a face, a voice, something I loved above all else onearth, something which was always near and yet was never found. It wasyou, Mary Josephine, you!"

Was it the real Derwent Conniston speaking now? He felt again thatoverwhelming force from within which was not his own. The thing thathad begun as a lie struck him now as a thing that was truth. It was he, John Keith, who had been questing and yearning and hoping. It was JohnKeith, and not Conniston, who had returned into a world filled with adesolation of loneliness, and it was to John Keith that a beneficentGod had sent this wonderful creature in an hour that was blackest inits despair. He was not lying now. He was fighting. He was fighting tokeep for himself the one atom of humanity that meant more to him thanall the rest of the human race, fighting to keep a great love that hadcome to him out of a world in which he no longer had a friend or ahome, and to that fight his soul went out as a drowning man grips at aspar on a sea. As the girl's hands came to his face and he heard theyearning, grief-filled cry of his name on her lips, he no longer sensedthe things he was saying, but held her close in his arms, kissing hermouth, and her eyes, and her hair, and repeating over and over againthat now he had found her he would never give her up. Her arms clung tohim. They were like two children brought together after a longseparation, and Keith knew that Conniston's love for this girl who washis sister must have been a splendid thing. And his lie had savedConniston as well as himself. There had been no time to question thereason for the Englishman's neglect--for his apparent desertion of thegirl who had come across the sea to find him. Tonight it was sufficientthat HE was Conniston, and that to him the girl had fallen as aprecious heritage. 

He stood up with her at last, holding her away from him a little sothat he could look into her face wet with tears and shining withhappiness. She reached up a hand to his face, so that it touched thescar, and in her eyes he saw an infinite pity, a luminously tender glowof love and sympathy and understanding that no measurements couldcompass. Gently her hand stroked his scarred forehead. He felt his oldworld slipping away from under his feet, and with his triumph theresurged over him a thankfulness for that indefinable something that hadcome to him in time to give him the strength and the courage to lie. For she believed him, utterly and without the shadow of a suspicion shebelieved him. 

"Tomorrow you will help me to remember a great many things, " he said. "And now will you let me send you to bed, Mary Josephine?"

She was looking at the scar. "And all those years I didn't know, " shewhispered. "I didn't know. They told me you were dead, but I knew itwas a lie. It was Colonel Reppington--" She saw something in his facethat stopped her. 

"Derry, DON'T YOU REMEMBER?"

"I shall--tomorrow. But tonight I can see nothing and think of nothingbut you. Tomorrow--"

She drew his head down swiftly and kissed the brand made by the heatedbarrel of the Englishman's pistol. "Yes, yes, we must go to bed now, Derry, " she cried quickly. "You must not think too much. Tonight itmust just be of me. Tomorrow everything will come out right, everything. And now you may send me to bed. Do you remember--"

She caught herself, biting her lip to keep back the word. 

"Tell me, " he urged. "Do I remember what?"

"How you used to come in at the very last and tuck me in at night, Derry? And how we used to whisper to ourselves there in the darkness, and at last you would kiss me good-night? It was the kiss that alwaysmade me go to sleep. "

He nodded. "Yes, I remember, " he said. 

He led her to the spare room, and brought in her two travel-worn bags, and turned on the light. It was a man's room, but Mary Josephine stoodfor a moment surveying it with delight. 

"It's home, Derry, real home, " she whispered. 

He did not explain to her that it was a borrowed home and that this washis first night in it. Such unimportant details would rest untiltomorrow. He showed her the bath and its water system and thenexplained to Wallie that his sister was in the house and he would haveto bunk in the kitchen. At the last he knew what he was expected to do, what he must do. He kissed Mary Josephine good night. He kissed hertwice. And Mary Josephine kissed him and gave him a hug the like ofwhich he had never experienced until this night. It sent him back tothe fire with blood that danced like a drunken man's. 

He turned the lights out and for an hour sat in the dying glow of thebirch. For the first time since he had come from Miriam Kirkstone's hehad the opportunity to think, and in thinking he found his braincrowded with cold and unemotional fact. He saw his lie in all its nakedimmensity. Yet he was not sorry that he had lied. He had savedConniston. He had saved himself. And he had saved Conniston's sister, to love, to fight for, to protect. It had not been a Judas lie but alie with his heart and his soul and all the manhood in him behind it. To have told the truth would have made him his own executioner, itwould have betrayed the dead Englishman who had given to him his nameand all that he possessed, and it would have dragged to a pitilessgrief the heart of a girl for whom the sun still continued to shine. Noregret rose before him now. He felt no shame. All that he saw was thefight, the tremendous fight, ahead of him, his fight to make good asConniston, his fight to play the game as Conniston would have him playit. The inspiration that had come to him as he stood facing the stormfrom the western mountains possessed him again. He would go to theriver's end as he had planned to go before McDowell told him of ShanTung and Miriam Kirkstone. And he would not go alone. Mary Josephinewould go with him. 

It was midnight when he rose from the big chair and went to his room. The door was closed. He opened it and entered. Even as his hand gropedfor the switch on the wall, his nostrils caught the scent of somethingwhich was familiar and yet which should not have been there. It filledthe room, just as it had filled the big hall at the Kirkstone house, the almost sickening fragrance of agallochum burned in a cigarette. Ithung like a heavy incense. Keith's eyes glared as he scanned the roomunder the lights, half expecting to see Shan Tung sitting there waitingfor him. It was empty. His eyes leaped to the two windows. The shadewas drawn at one, the other was up, and the window itself was open aninch or two above the sill. Keith's hand gripped his pistol as he wentto it and drew the curtain. Then he turned to the table on which werethe reading lamp and Brady's pipes and tobacco and magazines. On anash-tray lay the stub of a freshly burned cigarette. Shan Tung had comesecretly, but he had made no effort to cover his presence. 

It was then that Keith saw something on the table which had not beenthere before. It was a small, rectangular, teakwood box no larger thana half of the palm of his hand. He had noticed Miriam Kirkstone'snervous fingers toying with just such a box earlier in the evening. They were identical in appearance. Both were covered with an exquisitefabric of oriental carving, and the wood was stained and polished untilit shone with the dark luster of ebony. Instantly it flashed upon himthat this was the same box he had seen at Miriam's. She had sent it tohim, and Shan Tung had been her messenger. The absurd thought was inhis head as he took up a small white square of card that lay on top ofthe box. The upper side of this card was blank; on the other side, in ascript as exquisite in its delicacy as the carving itself, were thewords:

"WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF SHAN TUNG. "

In another moment Keith had opened the box. Inside was a carefullyfolded slip of paper, and on this paper was written a single line. Keith's heart stopped beating, and his blood ran cold as he read whatit held for him, a message of doom from Shan Tung in nine words:

"WHAT HAPPENED TO DERWENT CONNISTON? DID YOU KILL HIM?"

XI

Stunned by a shock that for a few moments paralyzed every nerve centerin his body, John Keith stood with the slip of white paper in hishands. He was discovered! That was the one thought that pounded like ahammer in his brain. He was discovered in the very hour of his triumphand exaltation, in that hour when the world had opened its portals ofjoy and hope for him again and when life itself, after four years ofhell, was once more worth the living. Had the shock come a few hoursbefore, he would have taken it differently. He was expecting it then. He had expected it when he entered McDowell's office the first time. Hewas prepared for it afterward. Discovery, failure, and death werepossibilities of the hazardous game he was playing, and he wasunafraid, because he had only his life to lose, a life that was notmuch more than a hopeless derelict at most. Now it was different. MaryJosephine had come like some rare and wonderful alchemy to transmutefor him all leaden things into gold. In a few minutes she had upset theworld. She had literally torn aside for him the hopeless chaos in whichhe saw himself struggling, flooding him with the warm radiance of agreat love and a still greater desire. On his lips he could feel thesoft thrill of her good-night kiss and about his neck the embrace ofher soft arms. She had not gone to sleep yet. Across in the other roomshe was thinking of him, loving him; perhaps she was on her kneespraying for him, even as he held in his fingers Shan Tung's mysteriousforewarning of his doom. 

The first impulse that crowded in upon him was that of flight, theselfish impulse of personal salvation. He could get away. The nightwould swallow him up. A moment later he was mentally castigatinghimself for the treachery of that impulse to Mary Josephine. Hisfloundering senses began to readjust themselves. 

Why had Shan Tung given him this warning? Why had he not gone straightto Inspector McDowell with the astounding disclosure of the fact thatthe man supposed to be Derwent Conniston was not Derwent Conniston, butJohn Keith, the murderer of Miriam Kirkstone's father?

The questions brought to Keith a new thrill. He read the note again. Itwas a definite thing stating a certainty and not a guess. Shan Tung hadnot shot at random. He knew. He knew that he was not Derwent Connistonbut John Keith. And he believed that he had killed the Englishman tosteal his identity. In the face of these things he had not gone toMcDowell! Keith's eyes fell upon the card again. "With the complimentsof Shan Tung. " What did the words mean? Why had Shan Tung written themunless--with his compliments--he was giving him a warning and thechance to save himself?

His immediate alarm grew less. The longer he contemplated the slip ofpaper in his hand, the more he became convinced that the inscrutableShan Tung was the last individual in the world to stage a bit ofmelodrama without some good reason for it. There was but one conclusionhe could arrive at. The Chinaman was playing a game of his own, and hehad taken this unusual way of advising Keith to make a getaway whilethe going was good. It was evident that his intention had been to avoidthe possibility of a personal discussion of the situation. That, atleast, was Keith's first impression. 

He turned to examine the window. There was no doubt that Shan Tung hadcome in that way. Both the sill and curtain bore stains of water andmud, and there was wet dirt on the floor. For once the immaculateoriental had paid no attention to his feet. At the door leading intothe big room Keith saw where he had stood for some time, listening, probably when McDowell and Mary Josephine were in the outer roomwaiting for him. Suddenly his eyes riveted themselves on the middlepanel of the door. Brady had intended his color scheme to be oldivory--the panel itself was nearly white--and on it Shan Tung hadwritten heavily with a lead pencil the hour of his presence, "10. 45P. M. " Keith's amazement found voice in a low exclamation. He looked athis watch. It was a quarter-hour after twelve. He had returned to theShack before ten, and the clever Shan Tung was letting him know in thiscryptic fashion that for more than three-quarters of an hour he hadlistened at the door and spied upon him and Mary Josephine through thekeyhole. 

Had even such an insignificant person as Wallie been guilty of thatact, Keith would have felt like thrashing him. It surprised himselfthat he experienced no personal feeling of outrage at Shan Tung's frankconfession of eavesdropping. A subtle significance began to attachitself more and more to the story his room was telling him. He knewthat Shan Tung had left none of the marks of his presence out ofbravado, but with a definite purpose. Keith's psychological mind was atall times acutely ready to seize upon possibilities, and just as hispositiveness of Conniston's spiritual presence had inspired him to acthis lie with Mary Josephine, so did the conviction possess him now thathis room held for him a message of the most vital importance. 

In such an emergency Keith employed his own method. He sat down, lighted his pipe again, and centered the full resource of his mind onShan Tung, dissociating himself from the room and the adventure of thenight as much as possible in his objective analysis of the man. Fourdistinct emotional factors entered into that analysis--fear, distrust, hatred, personal enmity. To his surprise he found himself driftingsteadily into an unusual and unexpected mental attitude. From the timehe had faced Shan Tung in the inspector's office, he had regarded himas the chief enemy of his freedom, his one great menace. Now he feltneither personal enmity nor hatred for him. Fear and distrust remained, but the fear was impersonal and the distrust that of one who watches aclever opponent in a game or a fight. His conception of Shan Tungchanged. He found his occidental mind running parallel with theoriental, bridging the spaces which otherwise it never would havecrossed, and at the end it seized upon the key. It proved to him thathis first impulse had been wrong. Shan Tung had not expected him toseek safety in flight. He had given the white man credit for a largerunderstanding than that. His desire, first of all, had been to letKeith know that he was not the only one who was playing for big stakes, and that another, Shan Tung himself, was gambling a hazard of his own, and that the fraudulent Derwent Conniston was a trump card in that game. 

To impress this upon Keith he had, first of all, acquainted him withthe fact that he had seen through his deception and that he knew he wasJohn Keith and not Derwent Conniston. He had also let him know that hebelieved he had killed the Englishman, a logical supposition under thecircumstances. This information he had left for Keith was not in theform of an intimidation. There was, indeed, something very nearapologetic courtesy in the presence of the card bearing Shan Tung'scompliments. The penciling of the hour on the panel of the door, without other notation, was a polite and suggestive hint. He wantedKeith to know that he understood his peculiar situation up until thatparticular time, that he had heard and possibly seen much that hadpassed between him and Mary Josephine. The partly opened window, themud and wet on curtains and floor, and the cigarette stubs were all tocall Keith's attention to the box on the table. 

Keith could not but feel a certain sort of admiration for the Chinaman. The two questions he must answer now were, What was Shan Tung's game?and What did Shan Tung expect him to do?

Instantly Miriam Kirkstone flashed upon him as the possible motive forShan Tung's visit. He recalled her unexpected and embarrassing questionof that evening, in which she had expressed a suspicion and a doubt asto John Keith's death. He had gone to Miriam's at eight. It must havebeen very soon after that, and after she had caught a glimpse of theface at the window, that Shan Tung had hurried to the Shack. 

Slowly but surely the tangled threads of the night's adventure wereunraveling themselves for Keith. The main facts pressed upon him, nolonger smothered in a chaos of theory and supposition. If there hadbeen no Miriam Kirkstone in the big house on the hill, Shan Tung wouldhave gone to McDowell, and he would have been in irons at the presentmoment. McDowell had been right after all. Miriam Kirkstone wasfighting for something that was more than her existence. The thought ofthat "something" made Keith writhe and his hands clench. Shan Tung hadtriumphed but not utterly. A part of the fruit of his triumph was stilljust out of his reach, and the two--beautiful Miss Kirkstone and thedeadly Shan Tung--were locked in a final struggle for its possession. In some mysterious way he, John Keith, was to play the winning hand. How or when he could not understand. But of one thing he was convinced;in exchange for whatever winning card he held Shan Tung had offered himhis life. Tomorrow he would expect an answer. 

That tomorrow had already dawned. It was one o'clock when Keith againlooked at his watch. Twenty hours ago he had cooked his last camp-firebreakfast. It was only eighteen hours ago that he had filled himselfwith the smell of Andy Duggan's bacon, and still more recently that hehad sat in the little barber shop on the corner wondering what his fatewould be when he faced McDowell. It struck him as incongruous andimpossible that only fifteen hours had passed since then. If hepossessed a doubt of the reality of it all, the bed was there to helpconvince him. It was a real bed, and he had not slept in a real bed fora number of years. Wallie had made it ready for him. Its sheets weresnow-white. There was a counterpane with a fringe on it and pillowspuffed up with billowy invitation, as if they were on the point offloating away. Had they risen before his eyes, Keith would haveregarded the phenomenon rather casually. After the swift piling up ofthe amazing events of those fifteen hours, a floating pillow would haveseemed quite in the natural orbit of things. But they did not float. They remained where they were, their white breasts bared to him, urgingupon him a common-sense perspective of the situation. He wasn't goingto run away. He couldn't sit up all night. Therefore why not come tothem and sleep?

There was something directly personal in the appeal of the pillows andthe bed. It was not general; it was for him. And Keith responded. 

He made another note of the time, a half-hour after one, when he turnedin. He allotted himself four hours of sleep, for it was his intentionto be up with the sun. 

XII

Necessity had made of Keith a fairly accurate human chronometer. In thesecond year of his fugitivism he had lost his watch. At first it waslike losing an arm, a part of his brain, a living friend. From thattime until he came into possession of Conniston's timepiece he was hisown hour-glass and his own alarm clock. He became proficient. 

Brady's bed and the Circe-breasted pillows that supported his head werehis undoing. The morning after Shan Tung's visit he awoke to find thesun flooding in through the eastern window of his room, The warmth ofit as it fell full in his face, setting his eyes blinking, told him itwas too late. He guessed it was eight o'clock. When he fumbled hiswatch out from under his pillow and looked at it, he found it was aquarter past. He got up quietly, his mind swiftly aligning itself tothe happenings of yesterday. He stretched himself until his musclessnapped, and his chest expanded with deep breaths of air from thewindows he had left open when he went to bed. He was fit. He was readyfor Shan Tung, for McDowell. And over this physical readiness theresurged the thrill of a glorious anticipation. It fairly staggered himto discover how badly he wanted to see Mary Josephine again. 

He wondered if she was still asleep and answered that there was littlepossibility of her being awake--even at eight o'clock. Probably shewould sleep until noon, the poor, tired, little thing! He smiledaffectionately into the mirror over Brady's dressing-table. And thenthe unmistakable sound of voices in the outer room took him curiouslyto the door. They were subdued voices. He listened hard, and his heartpumped faster. One of them was Wallie's voice; the other was MaryJosephine's. 

He was amused with himself at the extreme care with which he proceededto dress. It was an entirely new sensation. Wallie had provided himwith the necessaries for a cold sponge and in some mysterious interimsince their arrival had brushed and pressed the most important ofConniston's things. With the Englishman's wardrobe he had brought upfrom barracks a small chest which was still locked. Until this morningKeith had not noticed it. It was less than half as large as a steamertrunk and had the appearance of being intended as a strong box ratherthan a traveling receptacle. It was ribbed by four heavy bands ofcopper, and the corners and edges were reinforced with the same metal. The lock itself seemed to be impregnable to one without a key. Conniston's name was heavily engraved on a copper tablet just above thelock. 

Keith regarded the chest with swiftly growing speculation. It was not athing one would ordinarily possess. It was an object which, on the faceof it, was intended to be inviolate except to its master key, a holderof treasure, a guardian of mystery and of precious secrets. In thelittle cabin up on the Barren Conniston had said rather indifferently, "You may find something among my things down there that will help youout. " The words flashed back to Keith. Had the Englishman, in thatcasual and uncommunicative way of his, referred to the contents of thischest? Was it not possible that it held for him a solution to themystery that was facing him in the presence of Mary Josephine? A senseof conviction began to possess him. He examined the lock more closelyand found that with proper tools it could be broken. 

He finished dressing and completed his toilet by brushing his beard. Onaccount of Mary Josephine he found himself regarding this hirsutetragedy with a growing feeling of disgust, in spite of the fact that itgave him an appearance rather distinguished and military. He wanted itoff. Its chief crime was that it made him look older. Besides, it wasinclined to be reddish. And it must tickle and prick like the deucewhen--

He brought himself suddenly to salute with an appreciative grin. "You're there, and you've got to stick, " he chuckled. After all, he wasa likable-looking chap, even with that handicap. He was glad. 

He opened his door so quietly that Mary Josephine did not see him atfirst. Her back was toward him as she bent over the dining-table. Herslim little figure was dressed in some soft stuff all crinkly frompacking. Her hair, brown and soft, was piled up in shining coils on thetop of her head. For the life of him Keith couldn't keep his eyes fromtraveling from the top of that glowing head to the little high-heeledfeet on the floor. They were adorable, slim little, aristocratic feetwith dainty ankles! He stood looking at her until she turned and caughthim. 

There was a change since last night. She was older. He could see itnow, the utter impropriety of his cuddling her up like a baby in thebig chair--the impossibility, almost. 

Mary Josephine settled his doubt. With a happy little cry she ran tohim, and Keith found her arms about him again and her lovely mouth heldup to be kissed. He hesitated for perhaps the tenth part of a second, if hesitation could be counted in that space. Then his arms closedabout her, and he kissed her. He felt the snuggle of her face againsthis breast again, the crush and sweetness of her hair against his lipsand cheek. He kissed her again uninvited. Before he could stop thehabit, he had kissed her a third time. 

Then her hands were at his face, and he saw again that look in hereyes, a deep and anxious questioning behind the shimmer of love inthem, something mute and understanding and wonderfully sympathetic, amothering soul looking at him and praying as it looked. If his life hadpaid the forfeit the next instant, he could not have helped kissing hera fourth time. 

If Mary Josephine had gone to bed with a doubt of his brotherlyinterest last night, the doubt was removed now. Her cheeks flushed. Hereyes shone. She was palpitantly, excitedly happy. "It's YOU, Derry, "she cried. "Oh, it's you as you used to be!"

She seized his hand and drew him toward the table. Wallie thrust in hishead from the kitchenette, grinning, and Mary Josephine flashed himback a meaning smile. Keith saw in an instant that Wallie had turnedfrom his heathen gods to the worship of something infinitely morebeautiful. He no longer looked to Keith for instructions. 

Mary Josephine sat down opposite Keith at the table. She was tellinghim, with that warm laughter and happiness in her eyes, how the sun hadwakened her, and how she had helped Wallie get breakfast. For the firsttime Keith was looking at her from a point of vantage; there was justso much distance between them, no more and no less, and the light wasright. She was, to him, exquisite. The little puckery lines came intoher smooth forehead when he apologized for his tardiness by explainingthat he had not gone to bed until one o'clock. Her concern wasdelightful. She scolded him while Wallie brought in the breakfast, andinwardly he swelled with the irrepressible exultation of a greatpossessor. He had never had anyone to scold him like that before. Itwas a scolding which expressed Mary Josephine's immediateproprietorship of him, and he wondered if the pleasure of it made himlook as silly as Wallie. His plans were all gone. He had intended toplay the idiotic part of one who had partly lost his memory, butthroughout the breakfast he exhibited no sign that he was anything buthealthfully normal. Mary Josephine's delight at the improvement of hiscondition since last night shone in her face and eyes, and he could seethat she was strictly, but with apparent unconsciousness, guardingherself against saying anything that might bring up the dread shadowbetween them. She had already begun to fight her own fight for him, andthe thing was so beautiful that he wanted to go round to her, and getdown on his knees, and put his head in her lap, and tell her the truth. 

It was in the moment of that thought that the look came into his facewhich brought the questioning little lines into her forehead again. Inthat instant she caught a glimpse of the hunted man, of the soul thathad traded itself, of desire beaten into helplessness by a thing shewould never understand. It was gone swiftly, but she had caught it. Andfor her the scar just under his hair stood for its meaning. Theresponsive throb in her breast was electric. He felt it, saw it, sensedit to the depth of his soul, and his faith in himself stood challenged. She believed. And he--was a liar. Yet what a wonderful thing to lie for!

"--He called me up over the telephone, and when I told him to be quiet, that you were still asleep, I think he must have sworn--it sounded likeit, but I couldn't hear distinctly--and then he fairly roared at me towake you up and tell you that you didn't half deserve such a lovelylittle sister as I am. Wasn't that nice, Derry?"

"You--you're talking about McDowell?"

"To be sure I am talking about Mr. McDowell! And when I told him yourinjury troubled you more than usual, and that I was glad you wereresting, I think I heard him swallow hard. He thinks a lot of you, Derry. And then he asked me WHICH injury it was that hurt you, and Itold him the one in the head. What did he mean? Were you hurt somewhereelse, Derry?"

Keith swallowed hard, too. "Not to speak of, " he said. "You see, MaryJosephine, I've got a tremendous surprise for you, if you'll promise itwon't spoil your appetite. Last night was the first night I've spent ina real bed for three years. "

And then, without waiting for her questions, he began to tell her theepic story of John Keith. With her sitting opposite him, her beautiful, wide-open, gray eyes looking at him with amazement as she sensed themarvelous coincidence of their meeting, he told it as he had not toldit to McDowell or even to Miriam Kirkstone. A third time the facts werethe same. But it was John Keith now who was telling John Keith's storythrough the lips of an unreal and negative Conniston. He forgot his ownbreakfast, and a look of gloom settled on Wallie's face when he peeredin through the door and saw that their coffee and toast were growingcold. Mary Josephine leaned a little over the table. Not once did sheinterrupt Keith. Never had he dreamed of a glory that might reflect hisemotions as did her eyes. As he swept from pathos to storm, from themadness of long, black nights to starvation and cold, as he told offlight, of pursuit, of the merciless struggle that ended at last in thecapture of John Keith, as he gave to these things words and lifepulsing with the beat of his own heart, he saw them revisioned in thosewonderful gray eyes, cold at times with fear, warm and glowing at othertimes with sympathy, and again shining softly with a glory of pride andlove that was meant for him alone. With him she was present in thelittle cabin up in the big Barren. Until he told of those days andnights of hopeless desolation, of racking cough and the nearness ofdeath, and of the comradeship of brothers that had come as a finalbenediction to the hunter and the hunted, until in her soul she wasunderstanding and living those terrible hours as they two had livedthem, he did not know how deep and dark and immeasurably tender thatgray mystery of beauty in her eyes could be. From that hour heworshiped them as he worshiped no other part of her. 

"And from all that you came back the same day I came, " she said in alow, awed voice. "You came back from THAT!"

He remembered the part he must play. 

"Yes, three years of it. If I could only remember as well, only half aswell, things that happened before this--" He raised a hand to hisforehead, to the scar. 

"You will, " she whispered swiftly. "Derry, darling, you will!"

Wallie sidled in and, with an adoring grin at Mary Josephine, suggestedthat he had more coffee and toast ready to serve, piping hot. Keith wasrelieved. The day had begun auspiciously, and over the bacon and eggs, done to a ravishing brown by the little Jap, he told Mary Josephine ofsome of his bills of fare in the north and how yesterday he had filledup on bacon smell at Andy Duggan's. Steak from the cheek of a walrus, he told her, was equal to porterhouse; seal meat wasn't bad, but onegrew tired of it quickly unless he was an Eskimo; polar bear meat wasfilling but tough and strong. He liked whale meat, especially thetail-steaks of narwhal, and cold boiled blubber was good in the winter, only it was impossible to cook it because of lack of fuel, unless onewas aboard ship or had an alcohol stove in his outfit. The tidbit ofthe Eskimo was birds' eggs, gathered by the ton in summer-time, rottenbefore cold weather came, and frozen solid as chunks of ice in winter. Through one starvation period of three weeks he had lived on themhimself, crunching them raw in his mouth as one worries away with apiece of rock candy. The little lines gathered in Mary Josephine'sforehead at this, but they smoothed away into laughter when hehumorously described the joy of living on nothing at all but air. Andhe added to this by telling her how the gluttonous Eskimo at feast-timewould lie out flat on their backs so that their womenfolk could feedthem by dropping chunks of flesh into their open maws until theirstomachs swelled up like the crops of birds overstuffed with grain. 

It was a successful breakfast. When it was over, Keith felt that he hadachieved a great deal. Before they rose from the table, he startledMary Josephine by ordering Wallie to bring him a cold chisel and ahammer from Brady's tool-chest. 

"I've lost the key that opens my chest, and I've got to break in, " heexplained to her. 

Mary Josephine's little laugh was delicious. "After what you told meabout frozen eggs, I thought perhaps you were going to eat some, " shesaid. 

She linked her arm in his as they walked into the big room, snugglingher head against his shoulder so that, leaning over, his lips wereburied in one of the soft, shining coils of her hair. And she wasmaking plans, enumerating them on the tips of her fingers. If he hadbusiness outside, she was going with him. Wherever he went she wasgoing. There was no doubt in her mind about that. She called hisattention to a trunk that had arrived while he slept, and assured himshe would be ready for outdoors by the time he had opened his chest. She had a little blue suit she was going to wear. And her hair? Did itlook good enough for his friends to see? She had put it up in a hurry. 

"It is beautiful, glorious, " he said. 

Her face pinked under the ardency of his gaze. She put a finger to thetip of his nose, laughing at him. "Why, Derry, if you weren't mybrother I'd think you were my lover! You said that as though you meantit TERRIBLY much. Do you?"

He felt a sudden dull stab of pain, "Yes, I mean it. It's glorious. Andso are you, Mary Josephine, every bit of you. "

On tiptoe she gave him the warm sweetness of her lips again. And thenshe ran away from him, joy and laughter in her face, and disappearedinto her room. "You must hurry or I shall beat you, " she called back tohim. 

XIII

In his own room, with the door closed and locked, Keith felt again thatdull, strange pain that made his heart sick and the air about himdifficult to breathe. 

"IF YOU WEREN'T MY BROTHER. "

The words beat in his brain. They were pounding at his heart until itwas smothered, laughing at him and taunting him and triumphing over himjust as, many times before, the raving voices of the weird wind-devilshad scourged him from out of black night and arctic storm. HER BROTHER!His hand clenched until the nails bit into his flesh. No, he hadn'tthought of that part of the fight! And now it swept upon him in adeluge. If he lost in the fight that was ahead of him, his life wouldpay the forfeit. The law would take him, and he would hang. And if hewon--she would be his sister forever and to the end of all time! Justthat, and no more. His SISTER! And the agony of truth gripped him thatit was not as a brother that he saw the glory in her hair, the glory inher eyes and face, and the glory in her slim little, beautifulbody--but as the lover. A merciless preordination had stacked the cardsagainst him again. He was Conniston, and she was Conniston's sister. 

A strong man, a man in whom blood ran red, there leaped up in him for amoment a sudden and unreasoning rage at that thing which he had calledfate. He saw the unfairness of it all, the hopelessness of it, thecowardly subterfuge and trickery of life itself as it had playedagainst him, and with tightly set lips and clenched hands he calledmutely on God Almighty to play the game square. Give him a chance! Givehim just one square deal, only one; let him see a way, let him fight aman's fight with a ray of hope ahead! In these red moments hopeemblazoned itself before his eyes as a monstrous lie. Bitterness rosein him until he was drunk with it, and blasphemy filled his heart. Whichever way he turned, however hard he fought, there was no chance ofwinning. From the day he killed Kirkstone the cards had been stackedagainst him, and they were stacked now and would be stacked until theend. He had believed in God, he had believed in the inevitable ethicsof the final reckoning of things, and he had believed strongly that animpersonal Something more powerful than man-made will was behind him inhis struggles. These beliefs were smashed now. Toward them he felt theimpulse of a maddened beast trampling hated things under foot. Theystood for lies--treachery--cheating--yes, contemptible cheating! It wasimpossible for him to win. However he played, whichever way he turned, he must lose. For he was Conniston, and she was Conniston's sister, ANDMUST BE TO THE END OF TIME. 

Faintly, beyond the door, he heard Mary Josephine singing. Like a bitof steel drawn to a tension his normal self snapped back into place. His readjustment came with a lurch, a subtle sort of shock. His handsunclenched, the tense lines in his face relaxed, and because that GodAlmighty he had challenged had given to him an unquenchable humor, hesaw another thing where only smirking ghouls and hypocrites had renthis brain with their fiendish exultations a moment before. It wasConniston's face, suave, smiling, dying, triumphant over life, andConniston was saying, just as he had said up there in the cabin on theBarren, with death reaching out a hand for him, "It's queer, old top, devilish queer--and funny!"

Yes, it was funny if one looked at it right, and Keith found himselfswinging back into his old view-point. It was the hugest joke life hadever played on him. His sister! He could fancy Conniston twisting hismustaches, his cool eyes glimmering with silent laughter, looking onhis predicament, and he could fancy Conniston saying: "It's funny, oldtop, devilish funny--but it'll be funnier still when some other mancomes along and carries her off!"

And he, John Keith, would have to grin and bear it because he was herbrother!

Mary Josephine was tapping at his door. 

"Derwent Conniston, " she called frigidly, "there's a female person onthe telephone asking for you. What shall I say?"

"Er--why--tell her you're my sister, Mary Josephine, and if it's MissKirkstone, be nice to her and say I'm not able to come to the 'phone, and that you're looking forward to meeting her, and that we'll be up tosee her some time today. "

"Oh, indeed!"

"You see, " said Keith, his mouth close to the door, "you see, this MissKirkstone--"

But Mary Josephine was gone. 

Keith grinned. His illimitable optimism was returning. Sufficient forthe day that she was there, that she loved him, that she belonged tohim, that just now he was the arbiter of her destiny! Far off in themountains he dreamed of, alone, just they two, what might not happen?Some day--

With the cold chisel and the hammer he went to the chest. His task wasone that numbed his hands before the last of the three locks wasbroken. He dragged the chest more into the light and opened it. He wasdisappointed. At first glance he could not understand why Conniston hadlocked it at all. It was almost empty, so nearly empty that he couldsee the bottom of it, and the first object that met his eyes was aninsult to his expectations--an old sock with a huge hole in the toe ofit. Under the sock was an old fur cap not of the kind worn north ofMontreal. There was a chain with a dog-collar attached to it, ahip-pocket pistol and a huge forty-five, and not less than a hundredcartridges of indiscriminate calibers scattered loosely about. At oneend, bundled in carelessly, was a pair of riding-breeches, and underthe breeches a pair of white shoes with rubber soles. There was neithersentiment nor reason to the collection in the chest. It was junk. Eventhe big forty-five had a broken hammer, and the pistol, Keith thought, might have stunned a fly at close range. He pawed the things over withthe cold chisel, and the last thing he came upon--buried under whatlooked like a cast-off sport shirt--was a pasteboard shoe box. Heraised the cover. The box was full of papers. 

Here was promise. He transported the box to Brady's table and sat down. He examined the larger papers first. There were a couple of old gamelicenses for Manitoba, half a dozen pencil-marked maps, chiefly of thePeace River country, and a number of letters from the secretaries ofBoards of Trade pointing out the incomparable possibilities theirrespective districts held for the homesteader and the buyer of land. Last of all came a number of newspaper clippings and a packet ofletters. 

Because they were loose he seized upon the clippings first, and as hiseyes fell upon the first paragraph of the first clipping his bodybecame suddenly tensed in the shock of unexpected discovery and amazedinterest. There were six of the clippings, all from English papers, English in their terseness, brief as stock exchange reports, andequally to the point. He read the six in three minutes. 

They simply stated that Derwent Conniston, of the Connistons ofDarlington, was wanted for burglary--and that up to date he had notbeen found. 

Keith gave a gasp of incredulity. He looked again to see that his eyeswere not tricking him. And it was there in cold, implacable print. Derwent Conniston--that phoenix among men, by whom he had come tomeasure all other men, that Crichton of nerve, of calm and audaciouscourage, of splendid poise--a burglar! It was cheap, farcical, animpossible absurdity. Had it been murder, high treason, defiance ofsome great law, a great crime inspired by a great passion or a greatideal, but it was burglary, brigandage of the cheapest and mostcommonplace variety, a sneaking night-coward's plagiarism of realadventure and real crime. It was impossible. Keith gritted the wordsaloud. He might have accepted Conniston as a Dick Turpin, a ClaudeDuval or a Macheath, but not as a Jeremy Diddler or a Bill Sykes. Theprinted lines were lies. They must be. Derwent Conniston might havekilled a dozen men, but he had never cracked a safe. To think it was tothink the inconceivable. 

He turned to the letters. They were postmarked Darlington, England. Hisfingers tingled as he opened the first. It was as he had expected, ashe had hoped. They were from Mary Josephine. He arranged them--nine inall--in the sequence of their dates, which ran back nearly eight years. All of them had been written within a period of eleven months. Theywere as legible as print. And as he passed from the first to thesecond, and from the second to the third, and then read on into theothers, he forgot there was such a thing as time and that MaryJosephine was waiting for him. The clippings had told him one thing;here, like bits of driftage to be put together, a line in this placeand half a dozen in that, in paragraphs that enlightened and in othersthat puzzled, was the other side of the story, a growing thing thatrose up out of mystery and doubt in segments and fractions of segmentsadding themselves together piecemeal, welding the whole into form andsubstance, until there rode through Keith's veins a wild thrill ofexultation and triumph. 

And then he came to the ninth and last letter. It was in a differenthandwriting, brief, with a deadly specificness about it that grippedKeith as he read. 

This ninth letter he held in his hand as he rose from the table, andout of his mouth there fell, unconsciously, Conniston's own words, "It's devilish queer, old top--and funny!"

There was no humor in the way he spoke them. His voice was hard, hiseyes dully ablaze. He was looking back into that swirling, unutterableloneliness of the northland, and he was seeing Conniston again. 

Fiercely he caught up the clippings, struck a match, and with a grimsmile watched them as they curled up into flame and crumbled into ash. What a lie was life, what a malformed thing was justice, what a monsterof iniquity the man-fabricated thing called law!

And again he found himself speaking, as if the dead Englishman himselfwere repeating the words, "It's devilish queer, old top--and funny!"

XIV

A quarter of an hour later, with Mary Josephine at his side, he waswalking down the green slope toward the Saskatchewan. In that directionlay the rims of timber, the shimmering valley, and the broad pathwaysthat opened into the plains beyond. 

The town was at their backs, and Keith wanted it there. He wanted tokeep McDowell, and Shan Tung, and Miriam Kirkstone as far away aspossible, until his mind rode more smoothly in the new orbit in whichit was still whirling a bit unsteadily. More than all else he wanted tobe alone with Mary Josephine, to make sure of her, to convince himselfutterly that she was his to go on fighting for. He sensed the nearnessand the magnitude of the impending drama. He knew that today he mustface Shan Tung, that again he must go under the battery of McDowell'seyes and brain, and that like a fish in treacherous waters he must swimcleverly to avoid the nets that would entangle and destroy him. Todaywas the day--the stage was set, the curtain about to be lifted, theplay ready to be enacted. But before it was the prologue. And theprologue was Mary Josephine's. 

At the crest of a dip halfway down the slope they had paused, and inthis pause he stood a half-step behind her so that he could look at herfor a moment without being observed. She was bareheaded, and it cameupon him all at once how wonderful was a woman's hair, how beautifulbeyond all other things beautiful and desirable. In twisted, glowingseductiveness it was piled up on Mary Josephine's head, transformedinto brown and gold glories by the sun. He wanted to put forth his handto it, and bury his fingers in it, and feel the thrill and the warmthand the crush of the palpitant life of it against his own flesh. Andthen, bending a little forward, he saw under her long lashes the sheerjoy of life shining in her eyes as she drank in the wonderful panoramathat lay below them to the west. Last night's rain had freshened it, the sun glorified it now, and the fragrance of earthly smells that roseup to them from it was the undefiled breath of a thing living andawake. Even to Keith the river had never looked more beautiful, andnever had his yearnings gone out to it more strongly than in thismoment, to the river and beyond--and to the back of beyond, where themountains rose up to meet the blue sky and the river itself was born. And he heard Mary Josephine's voice, joyously suppressed, exclaimingsoftly, "Oh, Derry!"

His heart was filled with gladness. She, too, was seeing what his eyessaw in that wonderland. And she was feeling it. Her hand, seeking hishand, crept into his palm, and the fingers of it clung to his fingers. He could feel the thrill of the miracle passing through her, themiracle of the open spaces, the miracle of the forests rising billow onbillow to the purple mists of the horizon, the miracle of the goldenSaskatchewan rolling slowly and peacefully in its slumbering sheen outof that mighty mysteryland that reached to the lap of the setting sun. He spoke to her of that land as she looked, wide-eyed, quick-breathing, her fingers closing still more tightly about his. This was but thebeginning of the glory of the west and the north, he told her. Beyondthat low horizon, where the tree tops touched the sky were theprairies--not the tiresome monotony which she had seen from the carwindows, but the wide, glorious, God-given country of the Northwestwith its thousands of lakes and rivers and its tens of thousands ofsquare miles of forests; and beyond those things, still farther, werethe foothills, and beyond the foothills the mountains. And in thosemountains the river down there had its beginning. 

She looked up swiftly, her eyes brimming with the golden flash of thesun. "It is wonderful! And just over there is the town!"

"Yes, and beyond the town are the cities. "

"And off there--"

"God's country, " said Keith devoutly. 

Mary Josephine drew a deep breath. "And people still live in towns andcities!" she exclaimed in wondering credulity. "I've dreamed of 'overhere, ' Derry, but I never dreamed that. And you've had it for years andyears, while I--oh, Derry!"

And again those two words filled his heart with gladness, words ofloving reproach, atremble with the mysterious whisper of a greatdesire. For she was looking into the west. And her eyes and her heartand her soul were in the west, and suddenly Keith saw his way as thoughlighted by a flaming torch. He came near to forgetting that he wasConniston. He spoke of his dream, his desire, and told her that lastnight--before she came--he had made up his mind to go. She had come tohim just in time. A little later and he would have been gone, buriedutterly away from the world in the wonderland of the mountains. And nowthey would go together. They would go as he had planned to go, quietly, unobtrusively; they would slip away and disappear. There was a reasonwhy no one should know, not even McDowell. It must be their secret. Some day he would tell her why. Her heart thumped excitedly as he wenton like a boy planning a wonderful day. He could see the swifter beatof it in the flush that rose into her face and the joy glowingtremulously in her eyes as she looked at him. They would get readyquietly. They might go tomorrow, the next day, any time. It would be aglorious adventure, just they two, with all the vastness of thatmountain paradise ahead of them. 

"We'll be pals, " he said. "Just you and me, Mary Josephine. We're allthat's left. "

It was his first experiment, his first reference to the information hehad gained in the letters, and swift as a flash Mary Josephine's eyesturned up to him. He nodded, smiling. He understood their quickquestioning, and he held her hand closer and began to walk with herdown the slope. 

"A lot of it came back last night and this morning, a lot of it, " heexplained. "It's queer what miracles small things can work sometimes, isn't it? Think what a grain of sand can do to a watch! This was one ofthe small things. " He was still smiling as he touched the scar on hisforehead. "And you, you were the other miracle. And I'm remembering. Itdoesn't seem like seven or eight years, but only yesterday, that thegrain of sand got mixed up somewhere in the machinery in my head. And Iguess there was another reason for my going wrong. You'll understand, when I tell you. "

Had he been Conniston it could not have come from him more naturally, more sincerely. He was living the great lie, and yet to him it was nolonger a lie. He did not hesitate, as shame and conscience might havemade him hesitate. He was fighting that something beautiful might beraised up out of chaos and despair and be made to exist; he wasfighting for life in place of death, for happiness in place of grief, for light in place of darkness--fighting to save where others woulddestroy. Therefore the great lie was not a lie but a thing withoutvenom or hurt, an instrument for happiness and for all the things goodand beautiful that went to make happiness. It was his one great weapon. Without it he would fail, and failure meant desolation. So he spokeconvincingly, for what he said came straight from the heart though itwas born in the shadow of that one master-falsehood. His wonder wasthat Mary Josephine believed him so utterly that not for an instant wasthere a questioning doubt in her eyes or on her lips. 

He told her how much he "remembered, " which was no more and no lessthan he had learned from the letters and the clippings. The story didnot appeal to him as particularly unusual or dramatic. He had passedthrough too many tragic happenings in the last four years to regard itin that way. It was simply an unfortunate affair beginning inmisfortune, and with its necessary whirlwind of hurt and sorrow. Theone thing of shame he would not keep out of his mind was that he, Derwent Conniston, must have been a poor type of big brother in thosedays of nine or ten years ago, even though little Mary Josephine hadworshiped him. He was well along in his twenties then. The Connistonsof Darlington were his uncle and aunt, and his uncle was a more or lessprominent figure in ship-building interests on the Clyde. With thesepeople the three--himself, Mary Josephine, and his brother Egbert--hadlived, "farmed out" to a hard-necked, flinty-hearted pair of relativesbecause of a brother's stipulation and a certain English law. With themthey had existed in mutual discontent and dislike. Derwent, when hebecame old enough, had stepped over the traces. All this Keith hadgathered from the letters, but there was a great deal that was missing. Egbert, he gathered, must have been a scapegrace. He was a cripple ofsome sort and seven or eight years his junior. In the letters MaryJosephine had spoken of him as "poor Egbert, " pitying instead ofcondemning him, though it was Egbert who had brought tragedy andseparation upon them. One night Egbert had broken open the Connistonsafe and in the darkness had had a fight and a narrow escape from hisuncle, who laid the crime upon Derwent. And Derwent, in whom Egbertmust have confided, had fled to America that the cripple might besaved, with the promise that some day he would send for Mary Josephine. He was followed by the uncle's threat that if he ever returned toEngland, he would be jailed. Not long afterward "poor Egbert" was founddead in bed, fearfully contorted. Keith guessed there had beensomething mentally as well as physically wrong with him. 

"--And I was going to send for you, " he said, as they came to the levelof the valley. "My plans were made, and I was going to send for you, when this came. "

He stopped, and in a few tense, breathless moments Mary Josephine readthe ninth and last letter he had taken from the Englishman's chest. Itwas from her uncle. In a dozen lines it stated that she, MaryJosephine, was dead, and it reiterated the threat against DerwentConniston should he ever dare to return to England. 

A choking cry came to her lips. "And that--THAT was it?"

"Yes, that--and the hurt in my head, " he said, remembering the part hemust play. "They came at about the same time, and the two of them musthave put the grain of sand in my brain. "

It was hard to lie now, looking straight into her face that had gonesuddenly white, and with her wonderful eyes burning deep into his soul. 

She did not seem, for an instant, to hear his voice or sense his words. "I understand now, " she was saying, the letter crumpling in herfingers. "I was sick for almost a year, Derry. They thought I was goingto die. He must have written it then, and they destroyed my letters toyou, and when I was better they told me you were dead, and then Ididn't write any more. And I wanted to die. And then, almost a yearago, Colonel Reppington came to me, and his dear old voice was soexcited that it trembled, and he told me that he believed you werealive. A friend of his had just returned from British Columbia, andthis friend told him that three years before, while on a grizzlyshooting trip, he had met a man named Conniston, an Englishman. Wewrote a hundred letters up there and found the man, Jack Otto, who wasin the mountains with you, and then I knew you were alive. But wecouldn't find you after that, and so I came--"

He would have wagered that she was going to cry, but she fought thetears back, smiling. 

"And--and I've found you!" she finished triumphantly. 

She snuggled close to him, and he slipped an arm about her waist, andthey walked on. She told him about her arrival in Halifax, how ColonelReppington had given her letters to nice people in Montreal andWinnipeg, and how it happened one day that she found his name in one ofthe Mounted Police blue books, and after that came on as fast as shecould to surprise him at Prince Albert. When she came to that point, Keith pointed once more into the west and said:

"And there is our new world. Let us forget the old. Shall we, MaryJosephine?"

"Yes, " she whispered, and her hand sought his again and crept into it, warm and confident. 

XV

They went on through the golden morning, the earth damp under theirfeet, the air filled with its sweet incense, on past scattered clumpsof balsams and cedars until they came to the river and looked down onits yellow sand-bars glistening in the sun. The town was hidden. Theyheard no sound from it. And looking up the great Saskatchewan, theriver of mystery, of romance, of glamour, they saw before them, wherethe spruce walls seemed to meet, the wide-open door through which theymight pass into the western land beyond. Keith pointed it out. And hepointed out the yellow bars, the glistening shores of sand, and toldher how even as far as this, a thousand miles by river--those sandsbrought gold with them from the mountains, the gold whosetreasure-house no man had ever found, and which must be hidden up theresomewhere near the river's end. His dream, like Duggan's, had been tofind it. Now they would search for it together. 

Slowly he was picking his way so that at last they came to the bit ofcleared timber in which was his old home. His heart choked him as theydrew near. There was an uncomfortable tightness in his breath. Thetimber was no longer "clear. " In four years younger generations of lifehad sprung up among the trees, and the place was jungle-ridden. Theywere within a few yards of the house before Mary Josephine saw it, andthen she stopped suddenly with a little gasp. For this that she facedwas not desertion, was not mere neglect. It was tragedy. She saw in aninstant that there was no life in this place, and yet it stood as iftenanted. It was a log chateau with a great, red chimney rising at oneend curtains and shades still hung at the windows. There were threechairs on the broad veranda that looked riverward. But two of thewindows were broken, and the chairs were falling into ruin. There wasno life. They were facing only the ghosts of life. 

A swift glance into Keith's face told her this was so. His lips wereset tight. There was a strange look in his face. Hand in hand they hadcome up, and her fingers pressed his tighter now. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

"It is John Keith's home as he left it four years ago, " he replied. 

The suspicious break in his voice drew her eyes from the chateau to hisown again. She could see him fighting. There was a twitching in histhroat. His hand was gripping hers until it hurt. 

"John Keith?" she whispered softly. 

"Yes, John Keith. "

She inclined her head so that it rested lightly and affectionatelyagainst his arm. 

"You must have thought a great deal of him, Derry. "

"Yes. "

He freed her hand, and his fists clenched convulsively. She could feelthe cording of the muscles in his arm, his face was white, and in hiseyes was a fixed stare that startled her. He fumbled in a pocket anddrew out a key. 

"I promised, when he died, that I would go in and take a last look forhim, " he said. "He loved this place. Do you want to go with me?"

She drew a deep breath. "Yes. "

The key opened the door that entered on the veranda. As it swung back, grating on its rusty hinges, they found themselves facing the chill ofa cold and lifeless air. Keith stepped inside. A glance told him thatnothing was changed--everything was there in that room with the bigfireplace, even as he had left it the night he set out to force justicefrom Judge Kirkstone. One thing startled him. On the dust-covered tablewas a bowl and a spoon. He remembered vividly how he had eaten hissupper that night of bread and milk. It was the littleness of thething, the simplicity of it, that shocked him. The bowl and spoon werestill there after four years. He did not reflect that they were asimperishable as all the other things about; the miracle was that theywere there on the table, as though he had used them only yesterday. Themost trivial things in the room struck him deepest, and he foundhimself fighting hard, for a moment, to keep his nerve. 

"He told me about the bowl and the spoon, John Keith did, " he said, nodding toward them. "He told me just what I'd find here, even to that. You see, he loved the place greatly and everything that was in it. Itwas impossible for him to forget even the bowl and the spoon and wherehe had left them. "

It was easier after that. The old home was whispering back its memoriesto him, and he told them to Mary Josephine as they went slowly fromroom to room, until John Keith was living there before her again, theJohn Keith whom Derwent Conniston had run to his death. It was thisthing that gripped her, and at last what was in her mind found voice. 

"It wasn't YOU who made him die, was it, Derry? It wasn't you?"

"No. It was the law. He died, as I told you, of a frosted lung. At thelast I would have shared my life with him had it been possible. McDowell must never know that. You must never speak of John Keithbefore him. "

"I--I understand, Derry. "

"And he must not know that we came here. To him John Keith was amurderer whom it was his duty to hang. "

She was looking at him strangely. Never had he seen her look at him inthat way. 

"Derry, " she whispered. 

"Yes?"

"Derry, IS JOHN KEITH ALIVE?"

He started. The shock of the question was in his face. He caughthimself, but it was too late. And in an instant her hand was at hismouth, and she was whispering eagerly, almost fiercely:

"No, no, no--don't answer me, Derry! DON'T ANSWER ME! I know, and Iunderstand, and I'm glad, glad, GLAD! He's alive, and it was you wholet him live, the big, glorious brother I'm proud of! And everyone elsethinks he's dead. But don't answer me, Derry, don't answer me!"

She was trembling against him. His arms closed about her, and he heldher nearer to his heart, and longer, than he had ever held her before. He kissed her hair many times, and her lips once, and up about his neckher arms twined softly, and a great brightness was in her eyes. 

"I understand, " she whispered again. "I understand. "

"And I--I must answer you, " he said. "I must answer you, because I loveyou, and because you must know. Yes, John Keith is alive!"

XVI

An hour later, alone and heading for the inspector's office, Keith feltin battle trim. His head was fairly singing with the success of themorning. Since the opening of Conniston's chest many things hadhappened, and he was no longer facing a blank wall of mystery. Hischief cause of exhilaration was Mary Josephine. She wanted to go awaywith him. She wanted to go with him anywhere, everywhere, as long asthey were together. When she had learned that his term of enlistmentwas about to expire and that if he remained in the Service he would beaway from her a great deal, she had pleaded with him not to reenlist. She did not question him when he told her that it might be necessary togo away very suddenly, without letting another soul know of theirmovements, not even Wallie. Intuitively she guessed that the reason hadsomething to do with John Keith, for he had let the fear grow in herthat McDowell might discover he had been a traitor to the Service, inwhich event the Law itself would take him away from her for aconsiderable number of years. And with that fear she was more than evereager for the adventure, and planned with him for its consummation. 

Another thing cheered Keith. He was no longer the absolute liar ofyesterday, for by a fortunate chance he had been able to tell her thatJohn Keith was alive. This most important of all truths he had confidedto her, and the confession had roused in her a comradeship that hadproclaimed itself ready to fight for him or run away with him. Not foran instant had she regretted the action he had taken in giving Keithhis freedom. He was peculiarly happy because of that. She was glad JohnKeith was alive. 

And now that she knew the story of the old home down in the clump oftimber and of the man who had lived there, she was anxious to meetMiriam Kirkstone, daughter of the man he had killed. Keith had promisedher they would go up that afternoon. Within himself he knew that he wasnot sure of keeping the promise. There was much to do in the next fewhours, and much might happen. In fact there was but little speculationabout it. This was the big day. Just what it held for him he could notbe sure until he saw Shan Tung. Any instant might see him put to thefinal test. 

Cruze was pacing slowly up and down the hall when Keith entered thebuilding in which McDowell had his offices. The young secretary's facebore a perplexed and rather anxious expression. His hands were burieddeep in his trousers pockets, and he was puffing a cigarette. AtKeith's appearance he brightened up a bit. 

"Don't know what to make of the governor this morning, by Jove Idon't!" he explained, nodding toward the closed doors. "I've gotinstructions to let no one near him except you. You may go in. "

"What seems to be the matter?" Keith felt out cautiously. 

Cruze shrugged his thin shoulders, nipped the ash from his cigarette, and with a grimace said, "Shan Tung. "

"Shan Tung?" Keith spoke the name in a sibilant whisper. Every nerve inhim had jumped, and for an instant he thought he had betrayed himself. Shan Tung had been there early. And now McDowell was waiting for himand had given instructions that no other should be admitted. If theChinaman had exposed him, why hadn't McDowell sent officers up to theShack? That was the first question that jumped into his head. Theanswer came as quickly--McDowell had not sent officers because, hatingShan Tung, he had not believed his story. But he was waiting there toinvestigate. A chill crept over Keith. 

Cruze was looking at him intently. 

"There's something to this Shan Tung business, " he said. "It's evengetting on the old man's nerves. And he's very anxious to see you, Mr. Conniston. I've called you up half a dozen times in the last hour. "

He nipped away his cigarette, turned alertly, and moved toward theinspector's door. Keith wanted to call him back, to leap upon him, ifnecessary, and drag him away from that deadly door. But he neithermoved nor spoke until it was too late. The door opened, he heard Cruzeannounce his presence, and it seemed to him the words were scarcely outof the secretary's mouth when McDowell himself stood in the door. 

"Come in, Conniston, " he said quietly. "Come in. "

It was not McDowell's voice. It was restrained, terrible. It was thevoice of a man speaking softly to cover a terrific fire raging within. Keith felt himself doomed. Even as he entered, his mind was swiftlygathering itself for the last play, the play he had set for himself ifthe crisis came. He would cover McDowell, bind and gag him even asCruze sauntered in the hall, escape through a window, and with MaryJosephine bury himself in the forests before pursuit could overtakethem. Therefore his amazement was unbounded when McDowell, closing thedoor, seized his hand in a grip that made him wince, and shook it withunfeigned gladness and relief. 

"I'm not condemning you, of course, " he said. "It was rather beastly ofme to annoy your sister before you were up this morning. She flatlyrefused to rouse you, and by George, the way she said it made me turnthe business of getting into touch with you over to Cruze. Sit down, Conniston. I'm going to explode a mine under you. "

He flung himself into his swivel chair and twisted one of his fiercemustaches, while his eyes blazed at Keith. Keith waited. He saw theother was like an animal ready to spring and anxious to spring, the oneevident stricture on his desire being that there was nothing to springat unless it was himself. 

"What happened last night?" he asked. 

Keith's mind was already working swiftly. McDowell's question gave himthe opportunity of making the first play against Shan Tung. 

"Enough to convince me that I am going to see Shan Tung today, " he said. 

He noticed the slow clenching and unclenching of McDowell's fingersabout the arms of his chair. 

"Then--I was right?"

"I have every reason to believe you were--up to a certain point. Ishall know positively when I have talked with Shan Tung. "

He smiled grimly. McDowell's eyes were no harder than his own. The ironman drew a deep breath and relaxed a bit in his chair. 

"If anything should happen, " he said, looking away from Keith, asthough the speech were merely casual, "if he attacks you--"

"It might be necessary to kill him in self-defense, " finished Keith. 

McDowell made no sign to show that he had heard, yet Keith thrilledwith the conviction that he had struck home. He went on telling brieflywhat had happened at Miriam Kirkstone's house the preceding night. McDowell's face was purple when he described the evidences of ShanTung's presence at the house on the hill, but with a mighty effort herestrained his passion. 

"That's it, that's it, " he exclaimed, choking back his wrath. "I knewhe was there! And this morning both of them lie about it--both of them, do you understand! She lied, looking me straight in the eyes. And helied, and for the first time in his life he laughed at me, curse me ifhe didn't! It was like the gurgle of oil. I didn't know a human couldlaugh that way. And on top of that he told me something that I WON'Tbelieve, so help me God, I won't!"

He jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth, his handsclenched behind him. Suddenly he whirled on Keith. 

"Why in heaven's name didn't you bring Keith back with you, or, if notKeith, at least a written confession, signed by him?" he demanded. 

This was a blow from behind for Keith. "What--what has Keith got to dowith this?" he stumbled. 

"More than I dare tell you, Conniston. But WHY didn't you bring back asigned confession from him? A dying man is usually willing to makethat. "

"If he is guilty, yes, " agreed Keith. "But this man was a differentsort. If he killed Judge Kirkstone, he had no regret. He did notconsider himself a criminal. He felt that he had dealt out justice inhis own way, and therefore, even when he was dying, he would not signanything or state anything definitely. "

McDowell subsided into his chair. 

"And the curse of it is I haven't a thing on Shan Tung, " he gritted. "Not a thing. Miriam Kirkstone is her own mistress, and in the eyes ofthe law he is as innocent of crime as I am. If she is voluntarilygiving herself as a victim to this devil, it is her ownbusiness--legally, you understand. Morally--"

He stopped, his savagely gleaming eyes boring Keith to the marrow. 

"He hates you as a snake hates fire-water. It is possible, if hethought the opportunity had come to him--"

Again he paused, cryptic, waiting for the other to gather the thing hehad not spoken. Keith, simulating two of Conniston's tricks at the sametime, shrugged a shoulder and twisted a mustache as he rose to hisfeet. He smiled coolly down at the iron man. For once he gave apassable imitation of the Englishman. 

"And he's going to have the opportunity today, " he saidunderstandingly. "I think, old chap, I'd better be going. I'm ratheranxious to see Shan Tung before dinner. "

McDowell followed him to the door. 

His face had undergone a change. There was a tense expectancy, almostan eagerness there. Again he gripped Keith's hand, and before the dooropened he said, "If trouble comes between you let it be in the open, Conniston--in theopen and not on Shan Tung's premises. "

Keith went out, his pulse quickening to the significance of the ironman's words, and wondering what the "mine" was that McDowell hadpromised to explode, but which he had not. 

XVII

Keith lost no time in heading for Shan Tung's. He was like a manplaying chess, and the moves were becoming so swift and so intricatethat his mind had no rest. Each hour brought forth its freshnecessities and its new alternatives. It was McDowell who had given himhis last cue, perhaps the surest and safest method of all for winninghis game. The iron man, that disciple of the Law who was merciless inhis demand of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, had let himunderstand that the world would be better off without Shan Tung. Thisman, who never in his life had found an excuse for the killer, nowmaneuvered subtly the suggestion for a killing. 

Keith was both shocked and amazed. "If anything happens, let it be inthe open and not on Shan Tung's premises, " he had warned him. Thatimplied in McDowell's mind a cool and calculating premeditation, theassumption that if Shan Tung was killed it would be in self-defense. And Keith's blood leaped to the thrill of it. He had not only found thedepths of McDowell's personal interest in Miriam Kirkstone, but a lastweapon had been placed in his hands, a weapon which he could use thisday if it became necessary. Cornered, with no other hope of savinghimself, he could as a last resort kill Shan Tung--and McDowell wouldstand behind him!

He went directly to Shan Tung's cafe and sauntered in. There were largechanges in it since four years ago. The moment he passed through itsscreened vestibule, he felt its oriental exclusiveness, the sleek andmysterious quietness of it. One might have found such a place cateringto the elite of a big city. It spoke sumptuously of a large expenditureof money, yet there was nothing bizarre or irritating to the senses. Its heavily-carved tables were almost oppressive in their solidity. Linen and silver, like Shan Tung himself, were immaculate. Magnificently embroidered screens were so cleverly arranged that onesaw not all of the place at once, but caught vistas of it. The fewvoices that Keith heard in this pre-lunch hour were subdued, and thespeakers were concealed by screens. Two orientals, as immaculate as thesilver and linen, were moving about with the silence of velvet-paddedlynxes. A third, far in the rear, stood motionless as one of the carventables, smoking a cigarette and watchful as a ferret. This was Li King, Shan Tung's right-hand man. 

Keith approached him. When he was near enough, Li King gave theslightest inclination to his head and took the cigarette from hismouth. Without movement or speech he registered the question, "What doyou want?"

Keith knew this to be a bit of oriental guile. In his mind there was nodoubt that Li King had been fully instructed by his master and that hehad been expecting him, even watching for him. Convinced of this, hegave him one of Conniston's cards and said, "Take this to Shan Tung. He is expecting me. "

Li King looked at the card, studied it for a moment with apparentstupidity, and shook his head. "Shan Tung no home. Gone away. "

That was all. Where he had gone or when he would return Keith could notdiscover from Li King. Of all other matters except that he had goneaway the manager of Shan Tung's affairs was ignorant. Keith felt liketaking the yellow-skinned hypocrite by the throat and choking somethingout of him, but he realized that Li King was studying and watching him, and that he would report to Shan Tung every expression that had passedover his face. So he looked at his watch, bought a cigar at the glasscase near the cash register, and departed with a cheerful nod, sayingthat he would call again. 

Ten minutes later he determined on a bold stroke. There was no time forindecision or compromise. He must find Shan Tung and find him quickly. And he believed that Miriam Kirkstone could give him a pretty good tipas to his whereabouts. He steeled himself to the demand he was about tomake as he strode up to the house on the hill. He was disappointedagain. Miss Kirkstone was not at home. If she was, she did not answerto his knocking and bell ringing. 

He went to the depot. No one he questioned had seen Shan Tung at thewest-bound train, the only train that had gone out that morning, andthe agent emphatically disclaimed selling him a ticket. Therefore hehad not gone far. Suspicion leaped red in Keith's brain. Hisimagination pictured Shan Tung at that moment with Miriam Kirkstone, and at the thought his disgust went out against them both. In thishumor he returned to McDowell's office. He stood before his chief, leaning toward him over the desk table. This time he was the inquisitor. 

"Plainly speaking, this liaison is their business, " he declared. "Because he is yellow and she is white doesn't make it ours. I've justhad a hunch. And I believe in following hunches, especially when onehits you good and hard, and this one has given me a jolt that meanssomething. Where is that big fat brother of hers?"

McDowell hesitated. "It isn't a liaison, " he temporized. "It'sone-sided--a crime against--"

"WHERE IS THAT BIG FAT BROTHER?" With each word Keith emphasized hisdemand with a thud of his fist on the table. "WHERE IS HE?"

McDowell was deeply perturbed. Keith could see it and waited. 

After a moment of silence the iron man rose from the swivel chair, walked to the window, gazed out for another moment, and walked backagain, twisting one of his big gray mustaches in a way that betrayedthe stress of his emotion. "Confound it, Conniston, you've got a mindfor seeking out the trivialities, and little things are sometimes themost embarrassing. "

"And sometimes most important, " added Keith. "For instance, it strikesme as mighty important that we should know where Peter Kirkstone is andwhy he is not here fighting for his sister's salvation. Where is he?"

"I don't know. He disappeared from town a month ago. Miriam says he issomewhere in British Columbia looking over some old mining properties. She doesn't know just where. "

"And you believe her?"

The eyes of the two men met. There was no longer excuse forequivocation. Both understood. 

McDowell smiled in recognition of the fact. "No. I think, Conniston, that she is the most wonderful little liar that lives. And thebeautiful part of it is, she is lying for a purpose. Imagine PeterKirkstone, who isn't worth the powder to blow him to Hades, interestedin old mines or anything else that promises industry or production! Andthe most inconceivable thing about the whole mess is that Miriamworships that fat and worthless pig of a brother. I've tried to findhim in British Columbia. Failed, of course. Another proof that thisaffair between Miriam and Shan Tung isn't a voluntary liaison on herpart. She's lying. She's walking on a pavement of lies. If she told thetruth--"

"There are some truths which one cannot tell about oneself, "interrupted Keith. "They must be discovered or buried. And I'm goingdeeper into this prospecting and undertaking business this afternoon. I've got another hunch. I think I'll have something interesting toreport before night. "

Ten minutes later, on his way to the Shack, he was discussing withhimself the modus operandi of that "hunch. " It had come to him in aninstant, a flash of inspiration. That afternoon he would see MiriamKirkstone and question her about Peter. Then he would return toMcDowell, lay stress on the importance of the brother, tell him that hehad a clew which he wanted to follow, and suggest finally a swift tripto British Columbia. He would take Mary Josephine, lie low until histerm of service expired, and then report by letter to McDowell that hehad failed and that he had made up his mind not to reenlist but to tryhis fortunes with Mary Josephine in Australia. Before McDowell receivedthat letter, they could be on their way into the mountains. The "hunch"offered an opportunity for a clean getaway, and in his jubilationMiriam Kirkstone and her affairs were important only as a means to anend. He was John Keith now, fighting for John Keith's life--and DerwentConniston's sister. 

Mary Josephine herself put the first shot into the fabric of his plans. She must have been watching for him, for when halfway up the slope hesaw her coming to meet him. She scolded him for being away from her, ashe had expected her to do. Then she pulled his arm about her slimlittle waist and held the hand thus engaged in both her own as theywalked up the winding path. He noticed the little wrinkles in heradorable forehead. 

"Derry, is it the right thing for young ladies to call on theirgentlemen friends over here?" she asked suddenly. 

"Why--er--that depends, Mary Josephine. You mean--"

"Yes, I do, Derwent Conniston! She's pretty, and I don't blame you, butI can't help feeling that I don't like it!"

His arm tightened about her until she gasped. The fragile softness ofher waist was a joy to him. 

"Derry!" she remonstrated. "If you do that again, I'll break!"

"I couldn't help it, " he pleaded. "I couldn't, dear. The way you saidit just made my arm close up tight. I'm glad you didn't like it. I canlove only one at a time, and I'm loving you, and I'm going on lovingyou all my life. "

"I wasn't jealous, " she protested, blushing. "But she called twice onthe telephone and then came up. And she's pretty. "

"I suppose you mean Miss Kirkstone?"

"Yes. She was frightfully anxious to see you, Derry. "

"And what did you think of her, dear?"

She cast a swift look up into his face. 

"Why, I like her. She's sweet and pretty, and I fell in love with herhair. But something was troubling her this morning. I'm quite sure ofit, though she tried to keep it back. "

"She was nervous, you mean, and pale, with sometimes a frightened lookin her eyes. Was that it?"

"You seem to know, Derry. I think it was all that. "

He nodded. He saw his horizon aglow with the smile of fortune. Everything was coming propitiously for him, even this unexpected visitof Miriam Kirkstone. He did not trouble himself to speculate as to theobject of her visit, for he was grappling now with his own opportunity, his chance to get away, to win out for himself in one lastmaster-stroke, and his mind was concentrated in that direction. Thetime was ripe to tell these things to Mary Josephine. She must beprepared. 

On the flat table of the hill where Brady had built his bungalow werescattered clumps of golden birch, and in the shelter of one of thenearer clumps was a bench, to which Keith drew Mary Josephine. Thereafter for many minutes he spoke his plans. Mary Josephine's cheeksgrew flushed. Her eyes shone with excitement and eagerness. Shethrilled to the story he told her of what they would do in thosewonderful mountains of gold and mystery, just they two alone. He madeher understand even more definitely that his safety and their mutualhappiness depended upon the secrecy of their final project, that in away they were conspirators and must act as such. They might start forthe west tonight or tomorrow, and she must get ready. 

There he should have stopped. But with Mary Josephine's warm littlehand clinging to his and her beautiful eyes shining at him like liquidstars, he felt within him an overwhelming faith and desire, and he wenton, making a clean breast of the situation that was giving them theopportunity to get away. He felt no prick of conscience at thought ofMiriam Kirkstone's affairs. Her destiny must be, as he had toldMcDowell, largely a matter of her own choosing. Besides, she hadMcDowell to fight for her. And the big fat brother, too. So withoutfear of its effect he told Mary Josephine of the mysterious liaisonbetween Miriam Kirkstone and Shan Tung, of McDowell's suspicions, ofhis own beliefs, and how it was all working out for their own good. 

Not until then did he begin to see the changing lights in her eyes. Notuntil he had finished did he notice that most of that vivid flush ofjoy had gone from her face and that she was looking at him in astrained, tense way. He felt then the reaction. She was not looking atthe thing as he was looking at it. He had offered to her anotherwoman's tragedy as THEIR opportunity, and her own woman's heart hadresponded in the way that has been woman's since the dawn of life. Asense of shame which he fought and tried to crush took possession ofhim. He was right. He must be right, for it was his life that washanging in the balance. Yet Mary Josephine could not know that. 

Her fingers had tightened about his, and she was looking away from him. He saw now that the color had almost gone from her face. There was theflash of a new fire in her yes. 

"And THAT was why she was nervous and pale, with sometimes a frightenedlook in her eyes, " she spoke softly, repeating his words. "It wasbecause of this Chinese monster, Shan Tung--because he has some sort ofpower over her, you say--because--"

She snatched her hand from his with a suddenness that startled him. Hereyes, so beautiful and soft a few minutes before, scintillated fire. "Derry, if you don't fix this heathen devil--I WILL!"

She stood up before him, breathing quickly, and he beheld in her notthe soft, slim-waisted little goddess of half an hour ago, but thefiercest fighter of all the fighting ages, a woman roused. And nolonger fear, but a glory swept over him. She was Conniston's sister, AND SHE WAS CONNISTON. Even as he saw his plans falling about him, heopened his arms and held them out to her, and with the swiftness oflove she ran into them, putting her hands to his face while he held herclose and kissed her lips. 

"You bet we'll fix that heathen devil before we go, " he said. "You betwe will--SWEETHEART!"

XVIII

Wallie, suffering the outrage of one who sees his dinner growing cold, found Keith and Mary Josephine in the edge of the golden birch andimplored them to come and eat. It was a marvel of a dinner. Over MaryJosephine's coffee and Keith's cigar they discussed their final plans. Keith made the big promise that he would "fix Shan Tung" in a hurry, perhaps that very afternoon. In the glow of Mary Josephine's proud eyeshe felt no task too large for him, and he was eager to be at it. Butwhen his cigar was half done, Mary Josephine came around and perchedherself on the arm of his chair, and began running her fingers throughhis hair. All desire to go after Shan Tung left him. He would haveremained there forever. Twice she bent down and touched his foreheadlightly with her lips. Again his arm was round her soft little waist, and his heart was pumping like a thing overworked. It was MaryJosephine, finally, who sent him on his mission, but not before shestood on tiptoe, her hands on his shoulders, giving him her mouth tokiss. 

An army at his back could not have strengthened Keith with a vasterdetermination than that kiss. There would be no more quibbling. Hismind was made up definitely on the point. And his first move was tohead straight for the Kirkstone house on the hill. 

He did not get as far as the door this time. He caught a vision ofMiriam Kirkstone in the shrubbery, bareheaded, her hair glowingradiantly in the sun. It occurred to him suddenly that it was her hairthat roused the venom in him when he thought of her as the property ofShan Tung. If it had been black or even brown, the thought might nothave emphasized itself so unpleasantly in his mind. But that vivid goldcried out against the crime, even against the girl herself. She saw himalmost in the instant his eyes fell upon her, and came forward quicklyto meet him. There was an eagerness in her face that told him hiscoming relieved her of a terrific suspense. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't at the Shack when you came, Miss Kirkstone, " hesaid, taking for a moment the hand she offered him. "I fancy you wereup there to see me about Shan Tung. "

He sent the shot bluntly, straight home. In the tone of his voice therewas no apology. He saw her grow cold, her eyes fixed on him staringly, as though she not only heard his words but saw what was in his mind. 

"Wasn't that it, Miss Kirkstone?"

She nodded affirmatively, but her lips did not move. 

"Shan Tung, " he repeated. "Miss Kirkstone, what is the trouble? Whydon't you confide in someone, in McDowell, in me, in--"

He was going to say "your brother, " but the suddenness with which shecaught his arm cut the words short. 

"Shan Tung has been to see him--McDowell?" she questioned excitedly. "He has been there today? And he told him--" She stopped, breathingquickly, her fingers tightening on his arm. 

"I don't know what passed between them, " said Keith. "But McDowell wastremendously worked up about you. So am I. We might as well be frank, Miss Kirkstone. There's something rotten in Denmark when two peoplelike you and Shan Tung mix up. And you are mixed; you can't deny it. You have been to see Shan Tung late at night. He was in the house withyou the first night I saw you. More than that--HE IS IN YOUR HOUSE NOW!"

She shrank back as if he had struck at her. "No, no, no, " she cried. "He isn't there. I tell you, he isn't!"

"How am I to believe you?" demanded Keith. "You have not told the truthto McDowell. You are fighting to cover up the truth. And we know it isbecause of Shan Tung. WHY? I am here to fight for you, to help you. AndMcDowell, too. That is why we must know. Miss Kirkstone, do you lovethe Chinaman?"

He knew the words were an insult. He had guessed their effect. As ifstruck there suddenly by a painter's brush, two vivid spots appeared inthe girl's pale cheeks. She shrank back from him another step. Her eyesblazed. Slowly, without turning their flame from his face, she pointedto the edge of the shrubbery a few feet from where they were standing. He looked. Twisted and partly coiled on the mold, where it had beenclubbed to death, was a little green grass snake. 

"I hate him--like that!" she said. 

His eyes came back to her. "Then for some reason known only to you andShan Tung you have sold or are intending to sell yourself to him!"

It was not a question. It was an accusation. He saw the flush of angerfading out of her cheeks. Her body relaxed, her head dropped, andslowly she nodded in confirmation. 

"Yes, I am going to sell myself to him. "

The astounding confession held him mute for a space. In the interval itwas the girl who became self-possessed. What she said next amazed himstill more. 

"I have confessed so much because I am positive that you will notbetray me. And I went up to the Shack to find you, because I want youto help me find a story to tell McDowell. You said you would help me. Will you?"

He still did not speak, and she went on. 

"I am accepting that promise as granted, too. McDowell mistrusts, buthe must not know. You must help me there. You must help me for two orthree weeks, At the end of that time something may happen. He must bemade to have faith in me again. Do you understand?"

"Partly, " said Keith. "You ask me to do this blindly, without knowingwhy I am doing it, without any explanation whatever on your part exceptthat for some unknown and mysterious price you are going to sellyourself to Shan Tung. You want me to cover and abet this monstrousdeal by hoodwinking the man whose suspicions threaten its consummation. If there was not in my own mind a suspicion that you are insane, Ishould say your proposition is as ludicrous as it is impossible. Havingthat suspicion, it is a bit tragic. Also it is impossible. It isnecessary for you first to tell me why you are going to sell yourselfto Shan Tung. "

Her face was coldly white and calm again. But her hands trembled. Hesaw her try to hide them, and pitied her. 

"Then I won't trouble you any more, for that, too, is impossible, " shesaid. "May I trust you to keep in confidence what I have told you?Perhaps I have had too much faith in you for a reason which has noreason, because you were with John Keith. John Keith was the one otherman who might have helped me. "

"And why John Keith? How could he have helped you?"

She shook her head. "If I told you that, I should be answering thequestion which is impossible. "

He saw himself facing a checkmate. To plead, to argue with her, he knewwould profit him nothing. A new thought came to him, swift andimperative. The end would justify the means. He clenched his hands. Heforced into his face a look that was black and vengeful. And he turnedit on her. 

"Listen to me, " he cried. "You are playing a game, and so am I. Possibly we are selfish, both of us, looking each to his own interestswith no thought of the other. Will you help me, if I help you?"

Again he pitied her as he saw with what eager swiftness she caught athis bait. 

"Yes, " she nodded, catching her breath. "Yes, I will help you. "

His face grew blacker. He raised his clenched hands so she could seethem, and advanced a step toward her. 

"Then tell me this--would you care if something happened to Shan Tung?Would you care if he died, if he was killed, if--"

Her breath was coming faster and faster. Again the red spots blazed inher cheeks. 

"WOULD YOU CARE?" he demanded. 

"No--no--I wouldn't care. He deserves to die. "

"Then tell me where Shan Tung is. For my game is with him. And Ibelieve it is a bigger game than your game, for it is a game of lifeand death. That is why I am interested in your affair. It is because Iam selfish, because I have my own score to settle, and because you canhelp me. I shall ask you no more questions about yourself. And I shallkeep your secret and help you with McDowell if you will keep mine andhelp me. First, where is Shan Tung?"

She hesitated for barely an instant. "He has gone out of town. He willbe away for ten days. "

"But he bought no ticket; no one saw him leave by train. "

"No, he walked up the river. An auto was waiting for him. He will passthrough tonight on the eastbound train on his way to Winnipeg. "

"Will you tell me why he is going to Winnipeg?"

"No, I cannot. "

He shrugged his shoulders. "It is scarcely necessary to ask. I canguess. It is to see your brother. "

Again he knew he had struck home. 

And yet she said, "No, it is not to see my brother. "

He held out his hand to her. "Miss Kirkstone, I am going to keep mypromise. I am going to help you with McDowell. Of course I demand myprice. Will you swear on your word of honor to let me know the momentShan Tung returns?"

"I will let you know. "

Their hands clasped. Looking into her eyes, Keith saw what told him hiswas not the greatest cross to bear. Miriam Kirkstone also was fightingfor her life, and as he turned to leave her, he said:

"While there is life there is hope. In settling my score with Shan TungI believe that I shall also settle yours. It is a strong hunch, MissKirkstone, and it's holding me tight. Ten days, Shan Tung, and then--"

He left her, smiling. Miriam Kirkstone watched him go, her slim handsclutched at her breast, her eyes aglow with a new thought, a new hope;and as he heard the gate slam behind him, a sobbing cry rose in herthroat, and she reached out her hands as if to call him back, forsomething was telling her that through this man lay the way to hersalvation. 

And her lips were moaning softly, "Ten days--ten days--and then--what?"

XIX

In those ten days all the wonders of June came up out of the south. Life pulsed with a new and vibrant force. The crimson fire-flowers, first of wild blooms to come after snow and frost, splashed the greenspaces with red. The forests took on new colors, the blue of the skygrew nearer, and in men's veins the blood ran with new vigor andanticipations. To Keith they were all this and more. Four years alongthe rim of the Arctic had made it possible for him to drink to the fullthe glory of early summer along the Saskatchewan. And to Mary Josephineit was all new. Never had she seen a summer like this that was dawning, that most wonderful of all the summers in the world, which comes inJune along the southern edge of the Northland. 

Keith had played his promised part. It was not difficult for him towipe away the worst of McDowell's suspicions regarding Miss Kirkstone, for McDowell was eager to believe. When Keith told him that Miriam wason the verge of a nervous breakdown simply because of certain troubleinto which Shan Tung had inveigled her brother, and that everythingwould be straightened out the moment Shan Tung returned from Winnipeg, the iron man seized his hands in a sudden burst of relief and gratitude. 

"But why didn't she confide in me, Conniston?" he complained. "Whydidn't she confide in me?" The anxiety in his voice, its note ofdisappointment, were almost boyish. 

Keith was prepared. "Because--"

He hesitated, as if projecting the thing in his mind. "McDowell, I'm ina delicate position. You must understand without forcing me to say toomuch. You are the last man in the world Miss Kirkstone wants to knowabout her trouble until she has triumphed, and it is over. Delicacy, perhaps; a woman's desire to keep something she is ashamed of from theone man she looks up to above all other men--to keep it away from himuntil she has cleared herself so that there is no suspicion. McDowell, if I were you, I'd be proud of her for that. "

McDowell turned away, and for a space Keith saw the muscles in the backof his neck twitching. 

"Derwent, maybe you've guessed, maybe you understand, " he said after amoment with his face still turned to the window. "Of course she willnever know. I'm too Old, old enough to be her father. But I've got theright to watch over her, and if any man ever injures her--"

His fists grew knotted, and softly Keith said behind him:

"You'd possibly do what John Keith did to the man who wronged hisfather. And because the Law is not always omniscient, it is alsopossible that Shan Tung may have to answer in some such way. Untilthen, until she comes to you of her own free will and with gladness inher eyes tells you her own secret and why she kept it from you--untilshe does that, I say, it is your part to treat her as if you had seennothing, guessed nothing, suspected nothing. Do that, McDowell, andleave the rest to me. "

He went out, leaving the iron man still with his face to the window. 

With Mary Josephine there was no subterfuge. His mind was stillcentered in his own happiness. He could not wipe out of his brain theconviction that if he waited for Shan Tung he was waiting just so longunder the sword of Damocles, with a hair between him and doom. He hopedthat Miriam Kirkstone's refusal to confide in him and her reluctance tofurnish him with the smallest facts in the matter would turn MaryJosephine's sympathy into a feeling of indifference if not of actualresentment. He was disappointed. Mary Josephine insisted on having MissKirkstone over for dinner the next day, and from that hour somethinggrew between the two girls which Keith knew he was powerless toovercome. Thereafter he bowed his head to fate. He must wait for ShanTung. 

"If it wasn't for your promise not to fall in love, I'd be afraid, "Mary Josephine confided to him that night, perched on the arm of hisbig chair. "At times I was afraid today, Derry. She's lovely. And youlike pretty hair--and hers--is wonderful!"

"I don't remember, " said Keith quietly, "that I promised you I wouldn'tfall in love. I'm desperately in love, and with you, Mary Josephine. And as for Miss Kirkstone's lovely hair--I wouldn't trade one of yoursfor all she has on her head. "

At that, with a riotous little laugh of joy, Mary Josephine swiftlyunbound her hair and let it smother about his face and shoulders. "Sometimes I have a terribly funny thought, Derry, " she whispered. "Ifwe hadn't always been sweethearts, back there at home, and if youhadn't always liked my hair, and kissed me, and told me I was pretty, I'd almost think you weren't my brother!"

Keith laughed and was glad that her hair covered his face. During thosewonderful first days of the summer they were inseparable, except whenmatters of business took Keith away. During these times he prepared foreventualities. The Keith properties in Prince Albert, he estimated, were worth at least a hundred thousand dollars, and he learned fromMcDowell that they would soon go through a process of law before beingturned over to his fortunate inheritors. Before that time, however, heknew that his own fate would be sealed one way or the other, and nowthat he had Mary Josephine to look after, he made a will, leavingeverything to her, and signing himself John Keith. This will he carriedin an envelope pinned inside his shirt. As Derwent Conniston hecollected one thousand two hundred and sixty dollars for three and ahalf years back wage in the Service. Two hundred and sixty of this hekept in his own pocket. The remaining thousand he counted out in newhundred-dollar bills under Mary Josephine's eyes, sealed the bills inanother envelope, and gave the envelope to her. 

"It's safer with you than with me, " he excused himself. "Fasten itinside your dress. It's our grub-stake into the mountains. "

Mary Josephine accepted the treasure with the repressed delight of oneupon whose fair shoulders had been placed a tremendous responsibility. 

There were days of both joy and pain for Keith. For even in the fullesthours of his happiness there was a thing eating at his heart, a thingthat was eating deeper and deeper until at times it was like adestroying flame within him. One night he dreamed; he dreamed thatConniston came to his bedside and wakened him, and that after wakeninghim he taunted him in ghoulish glee and told him that in bequeathinghim a sister he had given unto him forever and forever the curse of thedaughters of Achelous. And Keith, waking in the dark hour of night, knew in his despair that it was so. For all time, even though he wonthis fight he was fighting, Mary Josephine would be the unattainable. Asister--and he loved her with the love of a man!

It was the next day after the dream that they wandered again into thegrove that sheltered Keith's old home, and again they entered it andwent through the cold and empty rooms. In one of these rooms he soughtamong the titles of dusty rows of books until he came to one and openedit. And there he found what had been in the corner of his mind when thesun rose to give him courage after the night of his dream. Thedaughters of Achelous had lost in the end. Ulysses had tricked them. Ulysses had won. And in this day and age it was up to him, John Keith, to win, and win he would!

Always he felt this mastering certainty of the future when alone withMary Josephine in the open day. With her at his side, her hand in his, and his arm about her waist, he told himself that all life was alie--that there was no earth, no sun, no song or gladness in all theworld, if that world held no hope for him. It was there. It was beyondthe rim of forest. It was beyond the yellow plains, beyond the farthesttimber of the farthest prairie, beyond the foothills; in the heart ofthe mountains was its abiding place. As he had dreamed of thosemountains in boyhood and youth, so now he dreamed his dreams over againwith Mary Josephine. For her he painted his pictures of them, as theywandered mile after mile up the shore of the Saskatchewan--the littleworld they would make all for themselves, how they would live, whatthey would do, the mysteries they would seek out, the triumphs theywould achieve, the glory of that world--just for two. And MaryJosephine planned and dreamed with him. 

In a week they lived what might have been encompassed in a year. So itseemed to Keith, who had known her only so long. With Mary Josephinethe view-point was different. There had been a long separation, aseparation filled with a heartbreak which she would never forget, butit had not served to weaken the bonds between her and this loved one, who, she thought, had always been her own. To her their comradeship wasmore complete now than it ever had been, even back in the old days, forthey were alone in a land that was strange to her, and one was all thatthe world held for the other. So her possessorship of Keith was a thingwhich--again in the dark and brooding hours of night--sometimes madehim writhe in an agony of shame. Hers was a shameless love, a lovewhich had not even the lover's reason for embarrassment, a loveunreserved and open as the day. It was her trick, nights, to nestleherself in the big armchair with him, and it was her fun to smother hisface in her hair and tumble it about him, piling it over his mouth andnose until she made him plead for air. Again she would fit herselfcomfortably in the hollow of his arm and sit the evening out with herhead on his shoulder, while they planned their future, and twice inthat week she fell asleep there. Each morning she greeted him with akiss, and each night she came to him to be kissed, and when it was herpleasure she kissed him--or made him kiss her--when they were on theirlong walks. It was bitter-sweet to Keith, and more frequently came thehours of crushing desolation for him, those hours in the still, darknight when his hypocrisy and his crime stood out stark and hideous inhis troubled brain. 

As this thing grew in him, a black and foreboding thunderstorm on thehorizon of his dreams, an impulse which he did not resist dragged himmore and more frequently down to the old home, and Mary Josephine wasalways with him. They let no one know of these visits. And they talkedabout John Keith, and in Mary Josephine's eyes he saw more than once asoft and starry glow of understanding. She loved the memory of this manbecause he, her brother, had loved him. And after these hours came thenights when truth, smiling at him, flung aside its mask and stood agrinning specter, and he measured to the depths the falseness of histriumph. His comfort was the thought that she knew. Whatever happened, she would know what John Keith had been. For he, John Keith, had toldher. So much of the truth had he lived. 

He fought against the new strain that was descending upon him slowlyand steadily as the days passed. He could not but see the new lightthat had grown in Miriam Kirkstone's eyes. At times it was more than adawn of hope. It was almost certainty. She had faith in him, faith inhis promise to her, in his power to fight, his strength to win. Hergrowing friendship with Mary Josephine accentuated this, inspiring herat times almost to a point of conviction, for Mary Josephine'sconfidence in him was a passion. Even McDowell, primarily a fighter ofhis own battles, cautious and suspicious, had faith in him while hewaited for Shan Tung. It was this blind belief in him that depressedhim more than all else, for he knew that victory for himself must bebased more or less on deceit and treachery. For the first time he heardMiriam laugh with Mary Josephine; he saw the gold and the brown headtogether out in the sun; he saw her face shining with a light that hehad never seen there before, and then, when he came upon them, theirfaces were turned to him, and his heart bled even as he smiled and heldout his hands to Mary Josephine. They trusted him, and he was a liar, ahypocrite, a Pharisee. 

On the ninth day he had finished supper with Mary Josephine when thetelephone rang. He rose to answer it. It was Miriam Kirkstone. 

"He has returned, " she said. 

That was all. The words were in a choking voice. He answered and hungup the receiver. He knew a change had come into his face when he turnedto Mary Josephine. He steeled himself to a composure that drew aquestioning tenseness into her face. Gently he stroked her soft hair, explaining that Shan Tung had returned and that he was going to seehim. In his bedroom he strapped his Service automatic under his coat. 

At the door, ready to go, he paused. Mary Josephine came to him and puther hands to his shoulders. A strange unrest was in her eyes, aquestion which she did not ask. 

Something whispered to him that it was the last time. Whatever happenednow, tonight must leave him clean. His arms went around her, he drewher close against his breast, and for a space he held her there, looking into her eyes. 

"You love me?" he asked softly. 

"More than anything else in the world, " she whispered. 

"Kiss me, Mary Josephine. "

Her lips pressed to his. 

He released her from his arms, slowly, lingeringly. 

After that she stood in the lighted doorway, watching him, until hedisappeared in the gloom of the slope. She called good-by, and heanswered her. The door closed. 

And he went down into the valley, a hand of foreboding gripping at hisheart. 

XX

With a face out of which all color had fled, and eyes filled with theghosts of a new horror, Miriam Kirkstone stood before Keith in the bigroom in the house on the hill. 

"He was here--ten minutes, " she said, and her voice was as if she wasforcing it out of a part of her that was dead and cold. It waslifeless, emotionless, a living voice and yet strange with the chill ofdeath. "In those ten minutes he told me--that! If you fail--"

It was her throat that held him, fascinated him. White, slim, beautiful--her heart seemed pulsing there. And he could see that heartchoke back the words she was about to speak. 

"If I fail--" he repeated the words slowly after her, watching thatwhite, beating throat. 

"There is only the one thing left for me to do. You--you--understand?"

"Yes, I understand. Therefore I shall not fail. "

He backed away from her toward the door, and still he could not takehis eyes from the white throat with its beating heart. "I shall notfail, " he repeated. "And when the telephone rings, you will be here--toanswer?"

"Yes, here, " she replied huskily. 

He went out. Under his feet the gravelly path ran through a flood ofmoonlight. Over him the sky was agleam with stars. It was a whitenight, one of those wonderful gold-white nights in the land of theSaskatchewan. Under that sky the world was alive. The little city layin a golden glimmer of lights. Out of it rose a murmur, a ripplingstream of sound, the voice of its life, softened by the little valleybetween. Into it Keith descended. He passed men and women, laughing, talking, gay. He heard music. The main street was a moving throng. On acorner the Salvation Army, a young woman, a young man, a crippled boy, two young girls, and an old man, were singing "Nearer, My God, toThee. " Opposite the Board of Trade building on the edge of the river astreet medicine-fakir had drawn a crowd to his wagon. To the beat ofthe Salvation Army's tambourine rose the thrum of a made-up negro'sbanjo. 

Through these things Keith passed, his eyes open, his ears listening, but he passed swiftly. What he saw and what he heard pressed upon himwith the chilling thrill of that last swan-song, the swan-song of Ecla, of Kobat, of Ty, who had heard their doom chanted from themountain-tops. It was the city rising up about his cars in rejoicingand triumph. And it put in his heart a cold, impassive anger. He sensedan impending doom, and yet he was not afraid. He was no longer chainedby dreams, no more restrained by self. Before his eyes, beating, beating, beating, he saw that tremulous heart in Miriam Kirkstone'ssoft, white throat. 

He came to Shan Tung's. Beyond the softly curtained windows it was ayellow glare of light. He entered and met the flow of life, the murmurof voices and laughter, the tinkle of glasses, the scent of cigarettesmoke, and the fainter perfume of incense. And where he had seen himlast, as though he had not moved since that hour nine days ago, stillwith his cigarette, still sphinx-like, narrow-eyed, watchful, stood LiKing. 

Keith walked straight to him. And this time, as he approached, Li Kinggreeted him with a quick and subtle smile. He nipped his cigarette tothe tiled floor. He was bowing, gracious. Tonight he was not stupid. 

"I have come to see Shan Tung, " said Keith. 

He had half expected to be refused, in which event he was prepared touse his prerogative as an officer of the law to gain his point. But LiKing did not hesitate. He was almost eager. And Keith knew that ShanTung was expecting him. 

They passed behind one of the screens and then behind another, until itseemed to Keith their way was a sinuous twisting among screens. Theypaused before a panel in the wall, and Li King pressed the black throatof a long-legged, swan-necked bird with huge wings and the panel openedand swung toward them. It was dark inside, but Li King turned on alight. Through a narrow hallway ten feet in length he led the way, unlocked a second door, and held it open, smiling at Keith. 

"Up there, " he said. 

A flight of steps led upward and as Keith began to mount them the doorclosed softly behind him. Li King accompanied him no further. 

He mounted the steps, treading softly. At the top was another door, andthis he opened as quietly as Li King had closed the one below him. Again the omnipresent screens, and then his eyes looked out upon ascene which made him pause in astonishment. It was a great room, a roomfifty feet long by thirty in width, and never before had he beheld suchluxury as it contained. His feet sank into velvet carpets, the wallswere hung richly with the golds and browns and crimsons of pricelesstapestries, and carven tables and divans of deep plush and orientalchairs filled the space before him. At the far end was a raised dais, and before this, illumined in candleglow, was a kneeling figure. Henoticed then that there were many candles burning, that the room waslighted by candles, and that in their illumination the figure did notmove. He caught the glint of armors standing up, warrior like, againstthe tapestries, and he wondered for a moment if the kneeling figure wasa heathen god made of wood. It was then that he smelled the odor offrankincense; it crept subtly into his nostrils and his mouth, sweetened his breath, and made him cough. 

At the far end, before the dais, the kneeling figure began to move. Itsarms extended slowly, they swept backward, then out again, and threetimes the figure bowed itself and straightened, and with the movementcame a low, human monotone. It was over quickly. Probably two fullminutes had not passed since Keith had entered when the kneeling figuresprang to its feet with the quickness of a cat, faced about, and stoodthere, smiling and bowing and extending its hand. 

"Good evening, John Keith!" It was Shan Tung. An oriental gown fellabout him, draping him like a woman. It was a crimson gown, grotesquelyornamented with embroidered peacocks, and it flowed and swept about himin graceful undulations as he advanced, his footfalls making not thesound of a mouse on the velvet floors. 

"Good evening, John Keith!" He was close, smiling, his eyes glowing, his hand still outstretched, friendliness in his voice and manner. Andyet in that voice there was a purr, the purr of a cat watching itsprey, and in his eyes a glow that was the soft rejoicing of a triumph. 

Keith did not take the hand. He made as if he did not see it. He waslooking into those glowing, confident eyes of the Chinaman. A Chinaman!Was it possible? Could a Chinaman possess that voice, whose veryperfection shamed him?

Shan Tung seemed to read his thoughts. And what he found amused him, and he bowed again, still smiling. "I am Shan Tung, " he said with theslightest inflection of irony. "Here--in my home--I am different. Doyou not recognize me?"

He waved gracefully a hand toward a table on either side of which was achair. He seated himself, not waiting for Keith. Keith sat downopposite him. Again he must have read what was in Keith's heart, thedesire and the intent to kill, for suddenly he clapped his hands, notloudly, once--twice--

"You will join me in tea?" he asked. 

Scarcely had he spoken when about them, on all sides of them it seemedto Keith, there was a rustle of life. He saw tapestries move. Beforehis eyes a panel became a door. There was a clicking, a stir as ofgowns, soft footsteps, a movement in the air. Out of the panel doorwaycame a Chinaman with a cloth, napkins, and chinaware. Behind himfollowed a second with tea-urn and a bowl, and with the suddenness ofan apparition, without sound or movement, a third was standing atKeith's side. And still there was rustling behind, still there was thewhispering beat of life, and Keith knew that there were others. He didnot flinch, but smiled back at Shan Tung. A minute, no more, and thesoft-footed yellow men had performed their errands and were gone. 

"Quick service, " he acknowledged. "VERY quick service. Shan Tung! But Ihave my hand on something that is quicker!"

Suddenly Shan Tung leaned over the table. "John Keith, you are a foolif you came here with murder in your heart, " he said. "Let us befriends. It is best. Let us be friends. "

XXI

It was as if with a swiftness invisible to the eye a mask had droppedfrom Shan Tung's face. Keith, preparing to fight, urging himself on tothe step which he believed he must take, was amazed. Shan Tung wasearnest. There was more than earnestness in his eyes, an anxiety, afrankly revealed hope that Keith would meet him halfway. But he did notoffer his hand again. He seemed to sense, in that instant, the vastgulf between yellow and white. He felt Keith's contempt, the spurningcontumely that was in the other's mind. Under the pallid texture of hisskin there began to burn a slow and growing flush. 

"Wait!" he said softly. In his flowing gown he seemed to glide to acarven desk near at hand. He was back in a moment with a roll ofparchment in his hand. He sat down again and met Keith's eyes squarelyand in silence for a moment. 

"We are both MEN, John Keith. " His voice was soft and calm. Histapering fingers with their carefully manicured nails fondled the rollof parchment, and then unrolled it, and held it so the other could read. 

It was a university diploma. Keith stared. A strange name was scrolledupon it, Kao Lung, Prince of Shantung. His mind leaped to the truth. Helooked at the other. 

The man he had known as Shan Tung met his eyes with a quiet, strangesmile, a smile in which there was pride, a flash of sovereignty, of athing greater than skins that were white. "I am Prince Kao, " he said. "That is my diploma. I am a graduate of Yale. "

Keith's effort to speak was merely a grunt. He could find no words. AndKao, rolling up the parchment and forgetting the urn of tea that wasgrowing cold, leaned a little over the table again. And then it was, deep in his narrowed, smoldering eyes, that Keith saw a devil, aliving, burning thing of passion, Kao's soul itself. And Kao's voicewas quiet, deadly. 

"I recognized you in McDowell's office, " he said. "I saw, first, thatyou were not Derwent Conniston. And then it was easy, so easy. Perhapsyou killed Conniston. I am not asking, for I hated Conniston. Some dayI should have killed him, if he had come back. John Keith, from thatfirst time we met, you were a dead man. Why didn't I turn you over tothe hangman? Why did I warn you in such a way that I knew you wouldcome to see me? Why did I save your life which was in the hollow of myhand? Can you guess?"

"Partly, " replied Keith. "But go on. I am waiting. " Not for an instanthad it enter his mind to deny that he was John Keith. Denial was folly, a waste of time, and just now he felt that nothing in the world wasmore precious to him than time. 

Kao's quick mind, scheming and treacherous though it was, caught hisview-point, and he nodded appreciatively. "Good, John Keith. It iseasily guessed. Your life is mine. I can save it. I can destroy it. Andyou, in turn, can be of service to me. You help me, and I save you. Itis a profitable arrangement. And we both are happy, for you keepDerwent Conniston's sister--and I--I get my golden-headed goddess, Miriam Kirkstone!"

"That much I have guessed, " said Keith. "Go on!" For a moment Kaoseemed to hesitate, to study the cold, gray passiveness of the other'sface. "You love Derwent Conniston's sister, " he continued in a voicestill lower and softer. "And I--I love my golden-headed goddess. See!Up there on the dais I have her picture and a tress of her golden hair, and I worship them. "

Colder and grayer was Keith's face as he saw the slumbering passionburn fiercer in Kao's eyes. It turned him sick. It was a terrible thingwhich could not be called love. It was a madness. But Kao, the manhimself, was not mad. He was a monster. And while the eyes burned liketwo devils, his voice was still soft and low. 

"I know what you are thinking; I see what you are seeing, " he said. "You are thinking yellow, and you are seeing yellow. My skin! Mybirthright! My--" He smiled, and his voice was almost caressing. 

"John Keith, in Pe-Chi-Li is the great city of Pekin, and Pe-Chi-Li isthe greatest province in all China. And second only to that is theprovince of Shantung, which borders Pe-Chi-Li, the home of our Emperorsfor more centuries than you have years. And for so many generationsthat we cannot remember my forefathers have been rulers of Shantung. Mygrandfather was a Mandarin with the insignia of the Eighth Order, andmy father was Ninth and highest of all Orders, with his palace atTsi-Nan, on the Yellow Sea. And I, Prince Kao, eldest of his sons, cameto America to learn American law and American ways. And I learned them, John Keith. I returned, and with my knowledge I undermined agovernment. For a time I was in power, and then this thing you call thegod of luck turned against me, and I fled for my life. But the blood isstill here--" he put his hand softly to his breast, "--the blood of ahundred generations of rulers. I tell you this because you dare notbetray me, you dare not tell them who I am, though even that truthcould not harm me. I prefer to be known as Shan Tung. Only you--andMiriam Kirkstone--have heard as much. "

Keith's blood was like fire, but his voice was cold as ice. "GO ON!"

This time there could be no mistake. That cold gray of his passionlessface, the steely glitter in his eyes, were read correctly by Kao. Hiseyes narrowed. For the first time a dull flame leaped into hiscolorless cheeks. 

"Ah, I told you this because I thought we would work together, friends, " he cried. "But it is not so. You, like my golden-headedgoddess, hate me! You hate me because of my yellow skin. You say toyourself that I have a yellow heart. And she hates me, and she saysthat--but she is mine, MINE!" He sprang suddenly to his feet and sweptabout him with his flowing arms. "See what I have prepared for her! Itis here she will come, here she will live until I take her away. There, on that dais, she will give up her soul and her beautiful body tome--and you cannot help it, she cannot help it, all the world cannothelp it--AND SHE IS COMING TO ME TONIGHT!"

"TONIGHT!" gasped John Keith. 

He, too, leaped to his feet. His face was ghastly. And Kao, in hissilken gown, was sweeping his arms about him. 

"See! The candles are lighted for her. They are waiting. And tonight, when the town is asleep, she will come. AND IT IS YOU WHO WILL MAKE HERCOME, JOHN KEITH!"

Facing the devils in Kao's eyes, within striking distance of a creaturewho was no longer a man but a monster, Keith marveled at the coolnessthat held him back. 

"Yes, it is you who will at last give her soul and her beautiful bodyto me, " he repeated. "Come. I will show you how--and why!"

He glided toward the dais. His hand touched a panel. It opened and inthe opening he turned about and waited for Keith. 

"Come!" he said. 

Keith, drawing a deep breath, his soul ready for the shock, his bodyready for action, followed him. 

XXII

Into a narrow corridor, through a second door that seemed made ofpadded wool, and then into a dimly lighted room John Keith followedKao, the Chinaman. Out of this room there was no other exit; it wasalmost square, its ceiling was low, its walls darkly somber, and thatlife was there Keith knew by the heaviness of cigarette smoke in theair. For a moment his eyes did not discern the physical evidence ofthat life. And then, staring at him out of the yellow glow, he saw aface. It was a haunting, terrible face, a face heavy and deeply linedby sagging flesh and with eyes sunken and staring. They were more thanstaring. They greeted Keith like living coals. Under the face was ahuman form, a big, fat, sagging form that leaned outward from its seatin a chair. 

Kao, bowing, sweeping his flowing raiment with his arms, said, "JohnKeith, allow me to introduce you to Peter Kirkstone. "

For the first time amazement, shock, came to Keith's lips in an audiblecry. He advanced a step. Yes, in that pitiable wreck of a man herecognized Peter Kirkstone, the fat creature who had stood under thepicture of the Madonna that fateful night, Miriam Kirkstone's brother!

And as he stood, speechless, Kao said: "Peter Kirkstone, you know why Ihave brought this man to you tonight. You know that he is not DerwentConniston. You know that he is John Keith, the murderer of your father. Is it not so?"

The thick lips moved. The voice was husky--"Yes. "

"He does not believe. So I have brought him that he may listen to you. Peter Kirkstone, is it your desire that your sister, Miriam, giveherself to me, Prince Kao, tonight?"

Again the thick lips moved. This time Keith saw the effort. Heshuddered. He knew these questions and answers had been prepared. Adoomed man was speaking. 

And the voice came, choking, "Yes. "

"WHY?"

The terrible face of Peter Kirkstone seemed to contort. He looked atKao. And Kao's eyes were shining in that dull room like the eyes of asnake. 

"Because--it will save my life. "

"And why will it save your life?"

Again that pause, again the sickly, choking effort. "Because--I HAVEKILLED A MAN. "

Bowing, smiling, rustling, Kao turned to the door. "That is all, PeterKirkstone. Good night. John Keith, will you follow me?"

Dumbly Keith followed through the dark corridor, into the big roommellow with candle-glow, back to the table with its mocking tea-urn andchinaware. He felt a thing like clammy sweat on his back. He sat down. And Kao sat opposite him again. 

"That is the reason, John Keith. Peter Kirkstone, her brother, is amurderer, a cold-blooded murderer. And only Miriam Kirkstone and yourhumble servant, Prince Kao, know his secret. And to buy my secret, tosave his life, the golden-headed goddess is almost ready to giveherself to me--almost, John Keith. She will decide tonight, when you goto her. She will come. Yes, she will come tonight. I do not fear. Ihave prepared for her the candles, the bridal dais, the nuptial supper. Oh, she will come. For if she does not, if she fails, with tomorrow'sdawn Peter Kirkstone and John Keith both go to the hangman!"

Keith, in spite of the horror that had come over him, felt noexcitement. The whole situation was clear to him now, and there wasnothing to be gained by argument, no possibility of evasion. Kao heldthe winning hand, the hand that put him back to the wall in the face ofimpossible alternatives. These alternatives flashed upon him swiftly. There were two and only two--flight, and alone, without Mary Josephine;and betrayal of Miriam Kirkstone. Just how Kao schemed that he shouldaccomplish that betrayal, he could not guess. 

His voice, like his face, was cold and strange when it answered theChinaman; it lacked passion; there was no emphasis, no inflection thatgave to one word more than to another. And Keith, listening to his ownvoice, knew what it meant. He was cold inside, cold as ice, and hiseyes were on the dais, the sacrificial altar that Kao had prepared, waiting in the candleglow. On the floor of that dais was a great splashof dull-gold altar cloth, and it made him think of Miriam Kirkstone'sunbound and disheveled hair strewn in its outraged glory over the thingKao had prepared for her. 

"I see. It is a trade, Kao. You are offering me my life in return forMiriam Kirkstone. "

"More than that, John Keith. Mine is the small price. And yet it isgreat to me, for it gives me the golden goddess. But is she more to methan Derwent Conniston's sister may be to you? Yes, I am giving youher, and I am giving you your life, and I am giving Peter Kirkstone hislife--all for ONE. "

"For one, " repeated Keith. 

"Yes, for one. "

"And I, John Keith, in some mysterious way unknown to me at present, amto deliver Miriam Kirkstone to you?"

"Yes. "

"And yet, if I should kill you, now--where you sit--"

Kao shrugged his slim shoulders, and Keith heard that soft, gurglinglaugh that McDowell had said was like the splutter of oil. 

"I have arranged. It is all in writing. If anything should happen tome, there are messengers who would carry it swiftly. To harm me wouldbe to seal your own doom. Besides, you would not leave here alive. I amnot afraid. "

"How am I to deliver Miriam Kirkstone to you?"

Kao leaned forward, his fingers interlacing eagerly. "Ah, NOW you haveasked the question, John Keith! And we shall be friends, great friends, for you see with the eyes of wisdom. It will be easy, so easy that youwill wonder at the cheapness of the task. Ten days ago Miriam Kirkstonewas about to pay my price. And then you came. From that moment she sawyou in McDowell's office, there was a sudden change. Why? I don't know. Perhaps because of that thing you call intuition but to which we give agreater name. Perhaps only because you were the man who had run downher father's murderer. I saw her that afternoon, before you went up atnight. Ah, yes, I could see, I could understand the spark that hadbegun to grow in her, hope, a wild, impossible hope, and I prepared forit by leaving you my message. I went away. I knew that in a few daysall that hope would be centered in you, that it would live and die inyou, that in the end it would be your word that would bring her to me. And that word you must speak tonight. You must go to her, hope-broken. You must tell her that no power on earth can save her, and that Kaowaits to make her a princess, that tomorrow will be too late, thatTONIGHT must the bargain be closed. She will come. She will save herbrother from the hangman, and you, in bringing her, will save JohnKeith and keep Derwent Conniston's sister. Is it not a great reward forthe little I am asking?"

It was Keith who now smiled into the eyes of the Chinaman, but it was asmile that did not soften that gray and rock-like hardness that hadsettled in his face. "Kao, you are a devil. I suppose that is acompliment to your dirty ears. You're rotten to the core of the thingthat beats in you like a heart; you're a yellow snake from the skin in. I came to see you because I thought there might be a way out of thismess. I had almost made up my mind to kill you. But I won't do that. There's a better way. In half an hour I'll be with McDowell, and I'llbeat you out by telling him that I'm John Keith. And I'll tell him thisstory of Miriam Kirkstone from beginning to end. I'll tell him of thatdais you've built for her--your sacrificial altar!--and tomorrow PrinceAlbert will rise to a man to drag you out of this hole and kill you asthey would kill a rat. That is my answer, you slit-eyed, Yale-veneeredyellow devil! I may die, and Peter Kirkstone may die, but you'll notget Miriam Kirkstone!"

He was on his feet when he finished, amazed at the calmness of his ownvoice, amazed that his hands were steady and his brain was cool in thishour of his sacrifice. And Kao was stunned. Before his eyes he saw awhite man throwing away his life. Here, in the final play, was amaster-stroke he had not foreseen. A moment before the victor, he wasnow the vanquished. About him he saw his world falling, his power gone, his own life suddenly hanging by a thread. In Keith's face he read thetruth. This white man was not bluffing. He would go to McDowell. Hewould tell the truth. This man who had ventured so much for his ownlife and freedom would now sacrifice that life to save a girl, onegirl! He could not understand, and yet he believed. For it was therebefore his eyes in that gray, passionless face that was as inexorableas the face of one of his own stone gods. 

As he uttered the words that smashed all that Kao had planned for, Keith sensed rather than saw the swift change of emotion sweepingthrough the yellow-visaged Moloch staring up at him. For a space theoriental's evil eyes had widened, exposing wider rims of saffron white, betraying his amazement, the shock of Keith's unexpected revolt, andthen the lids closed slowly, until only dark and menacing gleams offire shot between them, and Keith thought of the eyes of a snake. Swiftas the strike of a rattler Kao was on his feet, his gown thrown back, one clawing hand jerking a derringer from his silken belt. In the samebreath he raised his voice in a sharp call. 

Keith sprang back. The snake-like threat in the Chinaman's eyes hadprepared him, and his Service automatic leaped from its holster withlightning swiftness. Yet that movement was no swifter than the responseto Kao's cry. The panel shot open, the screens moved, tapestriesbillowed suddenly as if moved by the wind, and Kao's servants sprangforth and were at him like a pack of dogs. Keith had no time to judgetheir number, for his brain was centered in the race with Kao'sderringer. He saw its silver mountings flash in the candle-glow, sawits spurt of smoke and fire. But its report was drowned in the roar ofhis automatic as it replied with a stream of lead and flame. He saw thederringer fall and Kao crumple up like a jackknife. His brain turnedred as he swung his weapon on the others, and as he fired, he backedtoward the door. Then something caught him from behind, twisting hishead almost from his shoulders, and he went down. 

He lost his automatic. Weight of bodies was upon him; yellow handsclutched for his throat; he felt hot breaths and heard throaty cries. Amadness of horror possessed him, a horror that was like the blindmadness of Laocoon struggling with his sons in the coils of the giantserpent. In these moments he was not fighting men. They were monsters, yellow, foul-smelling, unhuman, and he fought as Laocoon fought. As ifit had been a cane, he snapped the bone of an arm whose hand wasthrottling him; he twisted back a head until it snapped between itsshoulders; he struck and broke with a blind fury and a giant strength, until at last, torn and covered with blood, he leaped free and reachedthe door. As he opened it and sprang through, he had the visualimpression that only two of his assailants were rising from the floor. 

For the space of a second he hesitated in the little hallway. Down thestairs was light--and people. He knew that he was bleeding and hisclothes were torn, and that flight in that direction was impossible. Atthe opposite end of the hall was a curtain which he judged must cover awindow. With a swift movement he tore down this curtain and found thathe was right. In another second he had crashed the window outward withhis shoulder, and felt the cool air of the night in his face. The doorbehind him was still closed when he crawled out upon a narrow landingat the top of a flight of steps leading down into the alley. He pausedlong enough to convince himself that his enemies were making no effortto follow him, and as he went down the steps, he caught himself grimlychuckling. He had given them enough. 

In the darkness of the alley he paused again. A cool breeze fanned hischeeks, and the effect of it was to free him of the horror that hadgripped him in his fight with the yellow men. Again the calmness withwhich he had faced Kao possessed him. The Chinaman was dead. He wassure of that. And for him there was not a minute to lose. 

After all, it was his fate. The game had been played, and he had lost. There was one thing left undone, one play Conniston would still make, if he were there. And he, too, would make it. It was no longernecessary for him to give himself up to McDowell, for Kao was dead, andMiriam Kirkstone was saved. It was still right and just for him tofight for his life. But Mary Josephine must know FROM HIM. It was thelast square play he could make. 

No one saw him as he made his way through alleys to the outskirts ofthe town. A quarter of an hour later he came up the slope to the Shack. It was lighted, and the curtains were raised to brighten his way up thehill. Mary Josephine was waiting for him. 

Again there came over him the strange and deadly calmness with which hehad met the tragedy of that night. He had tried to wipe the blood fromhis face, but it was still there when he entered and faced MaryJosephine. The wounds made by the razor-like nails of his assailantswere bleeding; he was hatless, his hair was disheveled, and his throatand a part of his chest were bare where his clothes had been torn away. As Mary Josephine came toward him, her arms reaching out to him, herface dead white, he stretched out a restraining hand, and said, "Please wait, Mary Josephine!"

Something stopped her--the strangeness of his voice, the terriblehardness of his face, gray and blood-stained, the something appallingand commanding in the way he had spoken. He passed her quickly on hisway to the telephone. Her lips moved; she tried to speak; one of herhands went to her throat. He was calling Miriam Kirkstone's number! Andnow she saw that his hands, too, were bleeding. There came the murmurof a voice in the telephone. Someone answered. And then she heard himsay, "SHAN TUNG IS DEAD!"

That was all. He hung up the receiver and turned toward her. With alittle cry she moved toward him. 

"DERRY--DERRY--"

He evaded her and pointed to the big chair in front of the fireplace. "Sit down, Mary Josephine. "

She obeyed him. Her face was whiter than he had thought a living facecould be, And then, from the beginning to the end, he told hereverything. Mary Josephine made no sound, and in the big chair sheseemed to crumple smaller and smaller as he confessed the great lie toher, from the hour Conniston and he had traded identities in the littlecabin on the Barren. Until he died he knew she would haunt him as hesaw her there for the last time--her dead-white face, her great eyes, her voiceless lips, her two little hands clutched at her breast as shelistened to the story of the great lie and his love for her. 

Even when he had done, she did not move or speak. He went into hisroom, closed the door, and turned on the lights. Quickly he put intohis pack what he needed. And when he was ready, he wrote on a piece ofpaper:

"A thousand times I repeat, 'I love you. ' Forgive me if you can. If youcannot forgive, you may tell McDowell, and the Law will find me up atthe place of our dreams--the river's end. 

 --John Keith. "

This last message he left on the table for Mary Josephine. 

For a moment he listened at the door. Outside there was no movement, nosound. Quietly, then, he raised the window through which Kao had comeinto his room. 

A moment later he stood under the light of the brilliant stars. Faintlythere came to him the sounds of the city, the sound of life, of gayety, of laughter and of happiness, rising to him now from out of the valley. 

He faced the north. Down the side of the hill and over the valley laythe forests. And through the starlight he strode back to them oncemore, back to their cloisters and their heritage, the heritage of thehunted and the outcast. 

XXIII

All through the starlit hours of that night John Keith trudged steadilyinto the Northwest. For a long time his direction took him throughslashings, second-growth timber, and cleared lands; he followed roughroads and worn trails and passed cabins that were dark and without lifein the silence of midnight. Twice a dog caught the stranger scent inthe air and howled; once he heard a man's voice, far away, raised in ashout. Then the trails grew rougher. He came to a deep wide swamp. Heremembered that swamp, and before he plunged into it, he struck a matchto look at his compass and his watch. It took him two hours to make theother side. He was in the deep and uncut timber then, and a sense ofrelief swept over him. 

The forest was again his only friend. He did not rest. His brain andhis body demanded the action of steady progress, though it was notthrough fear of what lay behind him. Fear had ceased to be astimulating part of him; it was even dead within him. It was as if hisenergy was engaged in fighting for a principle, and the principle washis life; he was following a duty, and this duty impelled him to makehis greatest effort. He saw clearly what he had done and what was aheadof him. He was twice a killer of men now, and each time the killing hadrid the earth of a snake. This last time it had been an exceedinglygood job. Even McDowell would concede that, and Miriam Kirkstone, onher knees, would thank God for what he had done. But Canadian law didnot split hairs like its big neighbor on the south. It wanted him atleast for Kirkstone's killing if not for that of Kao, the Chinaman. Noone, not even Mary Josephine, would ever fully realize what he hadsacrificed for the daughter of the man who had ruined his father. ForMary Josephine would never understand how deeply he had loved her. 

It surprised him to find how naturally he fell back into his old habitof discussing things with himself, and how completely and calmly heaccepted the fact that his home-coming had been but a brief andwonderful interlude to his fugitivism. He did not know it at first, butthis calmness was the calmness of a despair more fatal than the menaceof the hangman. 

"They won't catch me, " he encouraged himself. "And she won't tell themwhere I'm going. No, she won't do that. " He found himself repeatingthat thought over and over again. Mary Josephine would not betray him. He repeated it, not as a conviction, but to fight back and hold downanother thought that persisted in forcing itself upon him. And thisthing, that at times was like a voice within him, cried out in itsmoments of life, "She hates you--and she WILL tell where you are going!"

With each hour it was harder for him to keep that voice down; itpersisted, it grew stronger; in its intervals of triumph it rose overand submerged all other thoughts in him. It was not his fear of herbetrayal that stabbed him; it was the underlying motive of it, thehatred that would inspire it. He tried not to vision her as he had seenher last, in the big chair, crushed, shamed, outraged--seeing in him nolonger the beloved brother, but an impostor, a criminal, a man whom shemight suspect of killing that brother for his name and his place inlife. But the thing forced itself on him. It was reasonable, and it wasjustice. 

"But she won't do it, " he told himself. "She won't do it. "

This was his fight, and its winning meant more to him than freedom. Itwas Mary Josephine who would live with him now, and not Conniston. Itwas her spirit that would abide with him, her voice he would hear inthe whispers of the night, her face he would see in the glow of hislonely fires, and she must remain with him always as the Mary Josephinehe had known. So he crushed back the whispering voice, beat it downwith his hands clenched at his side, fought it through the hours ofthat night with the desperation of one who fights for a thing greaterthan life. 

Toward dawn the stars began to fade out of the sky. He had beentireless, and he was tireless now. He felt no exhaustion. Through thegray gloom that came before day he went on, and the first glow of sunfound him still traveling. Prince Albert and the Saskatchewan werethirty miles to the south and east of him. 

He stopped at last on the edge of a little lake and unburdened himselfof his pack for the first time. He was glad that the premonition ofjust such a sudden flight as this had urged him to fill his emergencygrub-sack yesterday morning. "Won't do any harm for us to be prepared, "he had laughed jokingly to Mary Josephine, and Mary Josephine herselfhad made him double the portion of bacon because she was fond of it. Itwas hard for him to slice that bacon without a lump rising in histhroat. Pork and love! He wanted to laugh, and he wanted to cry, andbetween the two it was a queer, half-choked sound that came to hislips. He ate a good breakfast, rested for a couple of hours, and wenton. At a more leisurely pace he traveled through most of the day, andat night he camped. In the ten days following his flight from PrinceAlbert he kept utterly out of sight. He avoided trappers' shacks andtrails and occasional Indians. He rid himself of his beard and shavedhimself every other day. Mary Josephine had never cared much for thebeard. It prickled. She had wanted him smooth-faced, and now he wasthat. He looked better, too. But the most striking resemblance toDerwent Conniston was gone. At the end of the ten days he was at TurtleLake, fifty miles east of Fort Pitt. He believed that he could showhimself openly now, and on the tenth day bartered with some Indians forfresh supplies. Then he struck south of Fort Pitt, crossed theSaskatchewan, and hit between the Blackfoot Hills and the VermillionRiver into the Buffalo Coulee country. In the open country he came uponoccasional ranches, and at one of these he purchased a pack-horse. AtBuffalo Lake he bought his supplies for the mountains, including fiftysteel traps, crossed the upper branch of the Canadian Pacific at night, and the next day saw in the far distance the purple haze of the Rockies. 

It was six weeks after the night in Kao's place that he struck theSaskatchewan again above the Brazeau. He did not hurry now. Just aheadof him slumbered the mountains; very close was the place of his dreams. But he was no longer impelled by the mighty lure of the years that weregone. Day by day something had worn away that lure, as the ceaselessgrind of water wears away rock, and for two weeks he wandered slowlyand without purpose in the green valleys that lay under the snow-tippedpeaks of the ranges. He was gripped in the agony of an unutterableloneliness, which fell upon and scourged him like a disease. It was adeeper and more bitter thing than a yearning for companionship. Hemight have found that. Twice he was near camps. Three times he sawoutfits coming out, and purposely drew away from them. He had no desireto meet men, no desire to talk or to be troubled by talking. Day Andnight his body and his soul cried out for Mary Josephine, and in hisdespair he cursed those who had taken her away from him. It was acrisis which was bound to come, and in his aloneness he fought it out. Day after day he fought it, until his face and his heart bore the scarsof it. It was as if a being on whom he had set all his worship haddied, only it was worse than death. Dead, Mary Josephine would stillhave been his inspiration; in a way she would have belonged to him. Butliving, hating him as she must, his dreams of her were a sacrilege andhis love for her like the cut of a sword. In the end he was like a manwho had triumphed over a malady that would always leave its marks uponhim. In the beginning of the third week he knew that he had conquered, just as he had triumphed in a similar way over death and despair in thenorth. He would go into the mountains, as he had planned. He wouldbuild his cabin. And if the Law came to get him, it was possible thatagain he would fight. 

On the second day of this third week he saw advancing toward him asolitary horseman. The stranger was possibly a mile away when hediscovered him, and he was coming straight down the flat of the valley. That he was not accompanied by a pack-horse surprised Keith, for he wasbound out of the mountains and not in. Then it occurred to him that hemight be a prospector whose supplies were exhausted, and that he waseasing his journey by using his pack as a mount. Whoever and whateverhe was, Keith was not in any humor to meet him, and without attemptingto conceal himself he swung away from the river, as if to climb theslope of the mountain on his right. No sooner had he clearly signifiedthe new direction he was taking, than the stranger deliberately alteredhis course in a way to cut him off. Keith was irritated. Climbing up anarrow terrace of shale, he headed straight up the slope, as if hisintention were to reach the higher terraces of the mountain, and thenhe swung suddenly down into a coulee, where he was out of sight. Herehe waited for ten minutes, then struck deliberately and openly backinto the valley. He chuckled when he saw how cleverly his ruse hadworked. The stranger was a quarter of a mile up the mountain and stillclimbing. 

"Now what the devil is he taking all that trouble for?" Keith askedhimself. 

An instant later the stranger saw him again. For perhaps a minute hehalted, and in that minute Keith fancied he was getting a roundcursing. Then the stranger headed for him, and this time there was noescape, for the moment he struck the shelving slope of the valley, heprodded his horse into a canter, swiftly diminishing the distancebetween them. Keith unbuttoned the flap of his pistol holster andmaneuvered so that he would be partly concealed by his pack when thehorseman rode up. The persistence of the stranger suggested to him thatMary Josephine had lost no time in telling McDowell where the law wouldbe most likely to find him. 

Then he looked over the neck of his pack at the horseman, who was quitenear, and was convinced that he was not an officer. He was stilljogging at a canter and riding atrociously. One leg was napping as ifit had lost its stirrup-hold; the rider's arms were pumping, and hishat was sailing behind at the end of a string. 

"Whoa!" said Keith. 

His heart stopped its action. He was staring at a big red beard and ahuge, shaggy head. The horseman reined in, floundered from his saddle, and swayed forward as if seasick. 

"Well, I'll be--"

"DUGGAN!"

"JOHNNY--JOHNNY KEITH!"

XXIV

For a matter of ten seconds neither of the two men moved. Keith wasstunned. Andy Duggan's eyes were fairly popping out from under hisbushy brows. And then unmistakably Keith caught the scent of bacon inthe air. 

"Andy--Andy Duggan, " he choked. "You know me--you know JohnnyKeith--you know me--you--"

Duggan answered with an inarticulate bellow and jumped at Keith as ifto bear him to the ground. He hugged him, and Keith hugged, and thenfor a minute they stood pumping hands until their faces were red, andDuggan was growling over and over:

"An' you passed me there at McCoffin's Bend--an' I didn't know you, Ididn't know you, I didn't know you! I thought you was that cussedConniston! I did. I thought you was Conniston!" He stood back at last. "Johnny--Johnny Keith!"

"Andy, you blessed old devil!"

They pumped hands again, pounded shoulders until they were sore, and inKeith's face blazed once more the love of life. 

Suddenly old Duggan grew rigid and sniffed the air. "I smell bacon!"

"It's in the pack, Andy. But for Heaven's sake don't notice the baconuntil you explain how you happen to be here. "

"Been waitin' for you, " replied Duggan in an affectionate growl. "Knewyou'd have to come down this valley to hit the Little Fork. Beenwaitin' six weeks. "

Keith dug his fingers into Duggan's arm. 

"How did you know I was coming HERE?" he demanded. "Who told you?"

"All come out in the wash, Johnny. Pretty mess. Chinaman dead. JohnnyKeith, alias Conniston, alive an' living with Conniston's prettysister. Johnny gone--skipped. No one knew where. I made guesses. Knewthe girl would know if anyone did. I went to her, told her how you'n mehad been pals, an' she give me the idee you was goin' up to the river'send. I resigned from the Betty M. , that night. Told her, though, thatshe was a ninny if she thought you'd go up there. Made her believe thenote was just a blind. "

"My God, " breathed Keith hopelessly, "I meant it. "

"Sure you did, Johnny. I knew it. But I didn't dare let HER know it. Ifyou could ha' seen that pretty mouth o' hern curlin' up as if she'dliked to have bit open your throat, an' her hands clenched, an' thatmurder in her eyes--Man, I lied to her then! I told her I was afteryou, an' that if she wouldn't put the police on you, I'd bring backyour head to her, as they used to do in the old times. An' she bit. Yes, sir, she said to me, 'If you'll do that, I won't say a word to thepolice!' An' here I am, Johnny. An' if I keep my word with that littletiger, I've got to shoot you right now. Haw! Haw!"

Keith had turned his face away. 

Duggan, pulling him about by the shoulders, opened his eyes wide inamazement. --"Johnny--"

"Maybe you don't understand, Andy, " struggled Keith. "I'm sorry--shefeels--like that. "

For a moment Duggan was silent. Then he exploded with a sudden curse. "SORRY! What the devil you sorry for, Johnny? You treated her square, an' you left her almost all of Conniston's money. She ain't no kickcomin', and she ain't no reason for feelin' like she does. Let 'er goto the devil, I say. She's pretty an' sweet an' all that--but whenanybody wants to go clawin' your heart out, don't be fool enough tofeel sorry about it. You lied to her, but what's that? There's biggerlies than yourn been told, Johnny, a whole sight bigger! Don't you goworryin'. I've been here waitin' six weeks, an' I've done a lot ofthinkin', and all our plans are set an' hatched. An' I've got thenicest cabin all built and waitin' for us up the Little Fork. Here weare. Let's be joyful, son!" He laughed into Keith's tense, gray face. "Let's be joyful!"

Keith forced a grin. Duggan didn't know. He hadn't guessed what that"little tiger who would have liked to have bit open his throat" hadbeen to him. The thick-headed old hero, loyal to the bottom of hissoul, hadn't guessed. And it came to Keith then that he would nevertell him. He would keep that secret. He would bury it in his burned-outsoul, and he would be "joyful" if he could. Duggan's blazing, happyface, half buried in its great beard, was like the inspiration andcheer of a sun rising on a dark world. He was not alone. Duggan, theold Duggan of years ago, the Duggan who had planned and dreamed withhim, his best friend, was with him now, and the light came back intohis face as he looked toward the mountains. Off there, only a few milesdistant, was the Little Fork, winding into the heart of the Rockies, seeking out its hidden valleys, its trailless canons, its hiddenmysteries. Life lay ahead of him, life with its thrill and adventure, and at his side was the friend of all friends to seek it with him. Hethrust out his hands. 

"God bless you, Andy, " he cried. "You're the gamest pal that everlived!"

A moment later Duggan pointed to a clump of timber half a mile ahead. "It's past dinner-time, " he said. "There's wood. If you've got anybacon aboard, I move we eat. "

An hour later Andy was demonstrating that his appetite was as voraciousas ever. Before describing more of his own activities, he insisted thatKeith recite his adventures from the night "he killed that old skunk, Kirkstone. "

It was two o'clock when they resumed their journey. An hour later theystruck the Little Fork and until seven traveled up the stream. Theywere deep in the lap of the mountains when they camped for the night. After supper, smoking his pipe, Duggan stretched himself outcomfortably with his back to a tree. 

"Good thing you come along when you did, Johnny, " he said. "I beenwaitin' in that valley ten days, an' the eats was about gone when youhove in sight. Meant to hike back to the cabin for supplies tomorrow ornext day. Gawd, ain't this the life! An' we're goin' to find gold, Johnny, we're goin' to find it!"

"We've got all our lives to--to find it in, " said Keith. 

Duggan puffed out a huge cloud of smoke and heaved a great sigh ofpleasure. Then he grunted and chuckled. "Lord, what a little firebrandthat sister of Conniston's is!" he exclaimed. "Johnny, I bet if you'dwalk in on her now, she'd kill you with her own hands. Don't see whyshe hates you so, just because you tried to save your life. Of courseyou must ha' lied like the devil. Couldn't help it. But a lie ain'tnothin'. I've told some whoppers, an' no one ain't never wanted to killme for it. I ain't afraid of McDowell. Everyone said the Chink was agood riddance. It's the girl. There won't be a minute all her life sheain't thinkin' of you, an' she won't be satisfied until she's got you. That is, she thinks she won't. But we'll fool the little devil, Johnny. We'll keep our eyes open--an' fool her!"

"Let's talk of pleasanter things, " said Keith. "I've got fifty traps inthe pack, Andy. You remember how we used to plan on trapping during thewinter and hunting for gold during the summer?"

Duggan rubbed his hands until they made a rasping sound; he talked oflynx signs he had seen, and of marten and fox. He had panned "colors"at a dozen places along the Little Fork and was ready to make hisaffidavit that it was the same gold he had dredged at McCoffin's Bend. 

"If we don't find it this fall, we'll be sittin' on the mother lodenext summer, " he declared, and from then until it was time to turn inhe talked of nothing but the yellow treasure it had been his lifelongdream to find. At the last, when they had rolled in their blankets, heraised himself on his elbow for a moment and said to Keith:

"Johnny, don't you worry about that Conniston girl. I forgot to tellyou I've took time by the forelock. Two weeks ago I wrote an' told herI'd learned you was hittin' into the Great Slave country, an' that Iwas about to hike after you. So go to sleep an' don't worry about thatpesky little rattlesnake. "

"I'm not worrying, " said Keith. 

Fifteen minutes later he heard Duggan snoring. Quietly he unwrapped hisblanket and sat up. There were still burning embers in the fire, thenight--like that first night of his flight--was a glory of stars, andthe moon was rising. Their camp was in a small, meadowy pocket in thecenter of which was a shimmering little lake across which he couldeasily have thrown a stone. On the far side of this was the sheer wallof a mountain, and the top of this wall, thousands of feet up, caughtthe glow of the moon first. Without awakening his comrade, Keith walkedto the lake. He watched the golden illumination as it fell swiftlylower over the face of the mountain. He could see it move like a greatflood. And then, suddenly, his shadow shot out ahead of him, and heturned to find the moon itself glowing like a monstrous ball betweenthe low shoulders of a mountain to the east. The world about him becameall at once vividly and wildly beautiful. It was as if a curtain hadlifted so swiftly the eye could not follow it. Every tree and shrub androck stood out in a mellow spotlight; the lake was transformed to apool of molten silver, and as far as he could see, where shoulders andridges did not cut him out, the moonlight was playing on the mountains. In the air was a soft droning like low music, and from a distant cragcame the rattle of loosened rocks. He fancied, for a moment, that MaryJosephine was standing at his side, and that together they weredrinking in the wonder of this dream at last come true. Then a cry cameto his lips, a broken, gasping man-cry which he could not keep back, and his heart was filled with anguish. 

With all its beauty, all its splendor of quiet and peace, the night wasa bitter one for Keith, the bitterest of his life. He had not believedthe worst of Mary Josephine. He knew he had lost her and that she mightdespise him, but that she would actually hate him with the desire for apersonal vengeance he had not believed. Was Duggan right? Was MaryJosephine unfair? And should he in self-defense fight to poison his ownthoughts against her? His face set hard, and a joyless laugh fell fromhis lips. He knew that he was facing the inevitable. No matter what hadhappened, he must go on loving Mary Josephine. 

All through that night he was awake. Half a dozen times he went to hisblanket, but it was impossible for him to sleep. At four o'clock hebuilt up the fire and at five roused Duggan. The old river-man sprangup with the enthusiasm of a boy. He came back from the lake with hisbeard and head dripping and his face glowing. All the mountains held nocheerier comrade than Duggan. 

They were on the trail at six o'clock and hour after hour kept steadilyup the Little Fork. The trail grew rougher, narrower, and moredifficult to follow, and at intervals Duggan halted to make sure of theway. At one of these times he said to Keith:

"Las' night proved there ain't no danger from her, Johnny. I had adream, an' dreams goes by contraries an' always have. What you dreamnever comes true. It's always the opposite. An' I dreamed that littleshe-devil come up on you when you was asleep, took a big bread-knife, an' cut your head plumb off! Yessir, I could see her holdin' up thathead o' yourn, an' the blood was drippin', an' she was a-laughin'--"

"SHUT UP!" Keith fairly yelled the words. His eyes blazed. His face wasdead white. 

With a shrug of his huge shoulders and a sullen grunt Duggan went on. 

An hour later the trail narrowed into a short canon, and this canon, toKeith's surprise, opened suddenly into a beautiful valley, a narrowoasis of green hugged in between the two ranges. Scarcely had theyentered it, when Duggan raised his voice in a series of wild yells andbegan firing his rifle into the air. 

"Home-coming, " he explained to Keith, after he was done. "Cabin's justover that bulge. Be there in ten minutes. "

In less than ten minutes Keith saw it, sheltered in the edge of a thickgrowth of cedar and spruce from which its timbers had been taken. Itwas a larger cabin than he had expected to see--twice, three times aslarge. 

"How did you do it alone!" he exclaimed in admiration. "It's a wonder, Andy. Big enough for--for a whole family!"

"Half a dozen Indians happened along, an' I hired 'em, " explainedDuggan. "Thought I might as well make it big enough, Johnny, seein' Ihad plenty of help. Sometimes I snore pretty loud, an'--"

"There's smoke coming out of it, " cried Keith. 

"Kept one of the Indians, " chuckled Duggan. "Fine cook, an' asassy-lookin' little squaw she is, Johnny. Her husband died lastwinter, an' she jumped at the chance to stay, for her board an' fivebucks a month. How's your Uncle Andy for a schemer, eh, Johnny?"

A dozen rods from the cabin was a creek. Duggan halted here to waterhis horse and nodded for Keith to go on. 

"Take a look, Johnny; go ahead an' take a look! I'm sort of sot up overthat cabin. "

Keith handed his reins to Duggan and obeyed. The cabin door was open, and he entered. One look assured him that Duggan had good reason to be"sot up. " The first big room reminded him of the Shack. Beyond that wasanother room in which he heard someone moving and the crackle of a firein a stove. Outside Duggan was whistling. He broke off whistling tosing, and as Keith listened to the river-man's bellowing voice chantingthe words of the song he had sung at McCoffin's Bend for twenty years, he grinned. And then he heard the humming of a voice in the kitchen. Even the squaw was happy. 

And then--and then--

"GREAT GOD IN HEAVEN--"

In the doorway she stood, her arms reaching out to him, love, glory, triumph in her face--MARY JOSEPHINE!

He swayed; he groped out; something blinded him--tears--hot, blindingtears that choked him, that came with a sob in his throat. And then shewas in his arms, and her arms were around him, and she was laughing andcrying, and he heard her say: "Why--why didn't you come back--tome--that night? Why--why did you--go out--through the--window? I--I waswaiting--and I--I'd have gone--with you--"

From the door behind them came Duggan's voice, chuckling, exultant, booming with triumph. "Johnny, didn't I tell you there was lots biggerlies than yourn? Didn't I? Eh?"

XXV

It was many minutes, after Keith's arms had closed around MaryJosephine, before he released her enough to hold her out and look ather. She was there, every bit of her, eyes glowing with a greater gloryand her face wildly aflush with a thing that had never been therebefore; and suddenly, as he devoured her in that hungry look, she gavea little cry, and hugged herself to his breast, and hid her face there. 

And he was whispering again and again, as though he could find no otherword, "Mary--Mary--Mary--"

Duggan drew away from the door. The two had paid no attention to hisvoice, and the old river-man was one continuous chuckle as he unpackedKeith's horse and attended to his own, hobbling them both and tyingcow-bells to them. It was half an hour before he ventured up out of thegrove along the creek and approached the cabin again. Even then hehalted, fussing with a piece of harness, until he saw Mary Josephine inthe door. The sun was shining on her. Her glorious hair was down, andbehind her was Keith, so close that his shoulders were covered with it. Like a bird Mary Josephine sped to Duggan. Great red beard and all shehugged him, and on the flaming red of his bare cheek-bone she kissedhim. 

"Gosh, " said Duggan, at a loss for something better to say. "Gosh--"

Then Keith had him by the hand. "Andy, you ripsnorting old liar, if youweren't old enough to be my father, I'd whale the daylights out ofyou!" he cried joyously. "I would, just because I love you so! You'vemade this day the--the--the--"

"--The most memorable of my life, " helped Mary Josephine. "Is thatit--John?"

Timidly, for the first time, her cheek against his shoulder, she spokehis name. And before Duggan's eyes Keith kissed her. 

Hours later, in a world aglow with the light of stars and a radiantmoon, Keith and Mary Josephine were alone out in the heart of theirlittle valley. To Keith it was last night returned, only morewonderful. There was the same droning song in the still air, the lowrippling of running water, the mysterious whisperings of the mountains. All about them were the guardian peaks of the snow-capped ranges, andunder their feet was the soft lush of grass and the sweet scent offlowers. "Our valley of dreams, " Mary Josephine had named it, aninfinite happiness trembling in her voice. "Our beautiful valley ofdreams--come true!" "And you would have come with me--that night?"asked Keith wonderingly. "That night--I ran away?"

"Yes. I didn't hear you go. And at last I went to your door andlistened, and then I knocked, and after that I called to you, and whenyou didn't answer, I entered your room. "

"Dear heaven!" breathed Keith. "After all that, you would have comeaway with me, covered with blood, a--a murderer, they say--a huntedman--"

"John, dear. " She took one of his hands in both her own and held ittight. "John, dear, I've got something to tell you. "

He was silent. 

"I made Duggan promise not to tell you I was here when he found you, and I made him promise something else--to keep a secret I wanted totell you myself. It was wonderful of him. I don't see how he did it. "

She snuggled still closer to him, and held his hand a little tighter. "You see, John, there was a terrible time after you killed Shan Tung. Only a little while after you had gone, I saw the sky growing red. Itwas Shan Tung's place--afire. I was terrified, and my heart was broken, and I didn't move. I must have sat at the window a long time, when thedoor burst open suddenly and Miriam ran in, and behind her cameMcDowell. Oh, I never heard a man swear as McDowell swore when he foundyou had gone, and Miriam flung herself on the floor at my feet andburied her head in my lap. 

"McDowell tramped up and down, and at last he turned to me as if he wasgoing to eat me, and he fairly shouted, 'Do you know--THAT CURSED FOOLDIDN'T KILL JUDGE KIRKSTONE!'"

There was a pause in which Keith's brain reeled. And Mary Josephinewent on, as quietly as though she were talking about that evening'ssunset:

"Of course, I knew all along, from what you had told me about JohnKeith, that he wasn't what you would call a murderer. You see, John, Ihad learned to LOVE John Keith. It was the other thing that horrifiedme! In the fight, that night, Judge Kirkstone wasn't badly hurt, juststunned. Peter Kirkstone and his father were always quarreling. Peterwanted money, and his father wouldn't give it to him. It seemsimpossible, --what happened then. But it's true. After you were gone, PETER KIRKSTONE KILLED HIS FATHER THAT HE MIGHT INHERIT THE ESTATE! Andthen he laid the crime on you!"

"My God!" breathed Keith. "Mary--Mary Josephine--how do you know?"

"Peter Kirkstone was terribly burned in the fire. He died that night, and before he died he confessed. That was the power Shan Tung held overMiriam. He knew. And Miriam was to pay the price that would save herbrother from the hangman. "

"And that, " whispered Keith, as if to himself, "was why she was sointerested in John Keith. "

He looked away into the shimmering distance of the night, and for along time both were silent. A woman had found happiness. A man's soulhad come out of darkness into light. 

THE END