se to his feet and hobbled painfully to her, a splendid hypocrite,
a magnificent dissembler. He seized her hand and held it in both his
own. It was small and soft, but strangely cold.

"Ma cheri--my dear child--what makes you look like that? What has the
death of Francois Breault to do with you--you and Jan?"

It was the voice of a friend, a brother, low, sympathetic, filled just
enough with anxiety. Only last winter, in just that way, it had won the
confidence and roused the hope of Pierrot's wife, over on the
Athabasca. In the summer that followed they hanged Pierrot. Gently
Blake spoke the words again. Marie's lips trembled. Her great eyes were
looking at him--straight into his soul, it seemed.

"You may tell me, ma cheri," he encouraged, barely above a whisper. "I
am Duval. And Jan--I love Jan."

He drew her back toward the cot, dragging his limb painfully, and
seated her again upon the stool. He sat beside her, still holding her
hand, patting it, encouraging her. The color was coming back into
Marie's cheeks. Her lips were growing full and red again, and suddenly
she gave a trembling little laugh as she looked up into Blake's face.
His presence began to dispel the terror that had possessed her all at
once.

"Tell me, Marie."

He saw the shudder that passed through her slim shoulders.

"They had a fight--here--in this cabin--three days ago," she confessed.
"It must have been--the day--he was killed."

Blake knew the wild thought that was in her heart as she watched him.
The muscles of his jaws tightened. His shoulders grew tense. He looked
over her head as if he, too, saw something beyond the cabin walls. It
was Marie's hand that gripped his now, and her voice, panting almost,
was filled with an agonized protest.

"No, no, no--it was not Jan," she moaned. "It was not Jan who killed
him!"

"Hush!" said Blake.

He looked about him as if there was a chance that someone might hear
the fatal words she had spoken. It was a splendid bit of acting, almost
unconscious, and tremendously effective. The expression in his face
stabbed to her heart like a cold knife. Convulsively her fingers
clutched more tightly at his hands. He might as well have spoken the
words: "It was Jan, then, who killed Francois Breault!"

Instead of that he said:

"You must tell me everything, Marie. How did it happen? Why did they
fight? And why has Jan gone away so soon after the killing? For Jan's
sake, you must tell me--everything."