ncois Breault, and she believed
that he would surely return--in three days. And the way he had left her
that morning! Yes, she confided even that to this big brother of Jan,
her cheeks flushing hotly in the darkness--how he had hated to go, and
held her a long time in his arms before he tore himself away.

Had he taken his fiddle along with him? Yes--always that. Next to
herself he loved his violin. Oo-oo--no, no--she was not jealous of the
violin! Blake laughed--such a big, healthy, happy laugh, with an odd
tremble in it. He stroked her hair again, and his fingers lay for an
instant against her warm cheek.

And then, quite casually, he played his second big card.

"A man was found dead on the trail yesterday," he said. "Some one
killed him. He had a bullet through his lung. He was the mail-runner,
Francois Breault."

It was then, when he said that Breault had been murdered, that Blake's
hand touched Marie's cheek and fell to her shoulder. It was too dark in
the cabin to see. But under his hand he felt her grow suddenly rigid,
and for a moment or two she seemed to stop breathing. In the gloom
Blake's lips were smiling. He had struck, and he needed no light to see
the effect.

"Francois--Breault!" he heard her breathe at last, as if she was
fighting to keep something from choking her. "Francois
Breault--dead--killed by someone--"

She rose slowly. His eyes followed her, a shadow in the gloom as she
moved toward the stove. He heard her strike a match, and when she
turned toward him again in the light of the oil-lamp, her face was pale
and her eyes were big and staring. He swung himself to the edge of the
cot, his pulse beating with the savage thrill of the inquisitor. Yet he
knew that it was not quite time for him to disclose himself--not quite.
He did not dread the moment when he would rise and tell her that he was
not injured, and that he was not M'sieu Duval, but Corporal Blake of
the Royal Mounted Police. He was eager for that moment. But he
waited--discreetly. When the trap was sprung there would be no escape.

"You are sure--it was Francois Breault?" she said at last.

He nodded.

"Yes, the mail-runner. You knew him?"

She had moved to the table, and her hand was gripping the edge of it.
For a space she did not answer him, but seemed to be looking somewhere
through the cabin walls--a long way off. Ferret-like, he was watching
her, and saw his opportunity. How splendidly fate was playing his way!

He ro