The two men were gazing eye to eye, McDowell's darkly keen and
questioning, Steve's full of irrevocable decision and cold hate.

"And when you--find him?"

Steve made a movement of the hands. It was indescribable but
significant. His lips parted to speak, and, in parting, his even teeth
were unusually bared.

"He's going to die!"

The words were spoken without emotion, without colour. They were quiet,
and carried a conviction that left the other without a shadow of doubt.

"I'm telling you this, McDowell, so you shall know clearly what's on my
mind." Steve went on after a pause. "Maybe you'll feel, as an officer of
police, it's up to you to do everything to prevent what I intend. But I
tell you you can't prevent it. I demand the right of a man from a man, a
husband, and a father. I'm quitting. If you try to hold me it'll make no
difference. You can delay. It'll make no difference. I shall
quit--eventually. And then I shall carry out my purpose. Get that. Then
we'll understand each other."

"We do, Steve." A flush lit the Superintendent's cheek. A deep fire was
alight in his dark eyes. "We understand each other better than you
think. You'll get your discharge just as quickly as I can put it
through. You hadn't said much, and I thought--but I'm glad you've told
me as a man, and not as--an officer."

He stood up from his chair with an abruptness which betrayed something
of his feelings. Steve held out the packet of letters.

"Will you take these, sir?" he said with a return to their official
relations.

McDowell nodded.

"Yes. Say, about that boy and the squaw you brought down. You left them
at Deadwater? It looks like some proposition. We'll need to hand them
over to the Reserve missionary. It's hell these white men, when they get
away north, bringing these bastard half-breeds into the world. What's
the mother? One of those Sleeper Indians?"

For a moment Steve remained gazing out of the window at the view of the
parade ground which the sunlight rendered almost picturesque. He was
thinking of the two reports which he had prepared. The first one that
had been the simple truth, and the second one which had been only partly
the true story, the rest changed in view of his own position. A tender
light for a moment melted the cold hatred of his eyes. He was thinking
of the white boy which he had reported as the bastard of An-ina, with a
view to obviate the official claim on him as a white child.

"Yes," he said.