art there is a devil, but we do not know
the man as bad until the devil is roused. And passion, the mad passion
for a woman, had roused him. Now that it had made twice a murderer of
him the devil slunk back into his hiding, and the man who had once been
the clean-living, red-blooded Joseph Brecht was only a husk without a
heart, slinking from place to place in the evasion of justice. For you
men of the Royal Mounted Police were on his trail. You would have
caught him, but you did not think of seeking for him in the Sulphur
Hell. For two years he had lived there, and when he finished his story
he was sitting on the edge of the cot, quite sane, gentlemen.

And for the first time M'sieu, my comrade, spoke.

"Let us bring up the dunnage from the canoe, mon pere."

He led the way out of the cabin, and I followed. We were fifty steps
away when he stopped suddenly.

"Ah," he said, "I have forgotten something. I will overtake you."

He turned back to the cabin, and I went on to the canoe.

He did not join me. When I returned with my burden, M'sieu appeared at
the door. He amazed me, startled me, I will say, gentlemen. I could not
imagine such a change as I saw in him--that man of horrible silence, of
grim, dark mystery. He was smiling; his white teeth shone; his voice
was the voice of another man. He seemed to me ten years younger as he
stood there, and as I dropped my load and went in he was laughing, and
his hand was laid pleasantly on my shoulder.

Across the cot, with his head stretched down to the floor, his eyes
bulging and his jaws agape, lay Joseph Brecht. I sprang to him. He was
dead. And then I SAW Gentlemen, he had been choked to death!

"He made one leetle meestake, mon pere. Andre Beauvais did not die. I
am Andre Beauvais."

That is all, gentlemen of the Royal Mounted. May the Law have mercy!

THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE

Thornton wasn't the sort of man in whom you'd expect to find the devil
lurking. He was big, blond, and broad-shouldered. When I first saw him
I thought he was an Englishman. That was at the post at Lac la Biche,
six hundred miles north of civilization. Scotty and I had been doing
some exploration work for the government, and for more than six months
we hadn't seen a real white man who looked like home.

We came in late at night, and the factor gave us a room in his house.
When we looked out of our window in the morning, we saw a little shack
about a hundred feet away, and in front of