and for an instant a
hand seemed to grip David's heart, filling it with pain. There was no
unhappiness in that laughter. It seemed, instead, to tremble in an
exultation of gladness.

Suddenly St. Pierre came nearer the door, and his voice was more
distinct. "Chere-coeur, I tell you it is the greatest joke of my life,"
he heard him say. "We are safe. If it should come to the worst, we can
settle the matter in another way. I can not but sing and laugh, even in
the face of it all. And she, in that very innocence which amuses me so,
has no suspicion--"

He turned, and vainly David keyed his ears to catch the final words.
The voices in the cabin grew lower. Twice he heard the soft laughter of
the woman. St. Pierre's voice, when he spoke, was unintelligible.

The thought that his random adventure was bringing him to an important
discovery possessed Carrigan. St. Pierre, he believed, had been on the
very edge of disclosing something which he would have given a great
deal to know. Surely in this cabin there must be a window, and the
window would be open--

Quietly he felt his way through the darkness to the shore side of the
cabin. A narrow bar of light at least partly confirmed his judgment.
There was a window. But it was almost entirely curtained, and it was
closed. Had the curtain been drawn two inches lower, the thin stream of
light would have been shut entirely out from the night.

Under this window David crouched for several minutes, hoping that in
the calm which was succeeding the storm it might be opened. The voices
were still more indistinct inside. He scarcely heard St. Pierre, but
twice again he heard the low and musical laughter of the woman. She had
laughed differently with HIM--and the grim smile settled on his lips as
he looked up at the narrow slit of light over his head. He had an
overwhelming desire to look in. After all, it was a matter of
professional business--and his duty.

He was glad the curtain was drawn so low. From experiments of his own
he knew there was small chance of those inside seeing him through the
two-inch slit, and he raised himself boldly until his eyes were on a
level with the aperture.

Directly in the line of his vision was St. Pierre's wife. She was
seated, and her back was toward him, so he could not see her face. She
was partly disrobed, and her hair was streaming loose about her. Once,
he remembered, she had spoken of fiery lights that came into her hair
under certain illumi