part he was a murderer. And in the province of
Alberta the penalty for killing a man was hanging. Because horror and
fear did not seize upon him, he wondered if he still realized the
situation. He believed that he did. It was merely a matter of human
nature. Death, he had supposed, was a fixed and foregone thing. He had
believed that only a few hours of life were left for him. And now it
was given back to him, for months at least. It was a glorious reprieve,
and--

Suddenly his heart stood still in the thrill of the thought that came
to him. Marette Radisson had known that he was not going to die! She
had hinted the fact, and he, like a blundering idiot, had failed to
catch the significance of it. She had given him no sympathy, had
laughed at him, had almost made fun of him, simply because she knew
that he was going to live!

He turned suddenly on Father Layonne.

"They shall believe me!" he cried. "I shall make them believe me! _Mon
pere_, I lied! I lied to save Sandy McTrigger, and I shall tell them
why. If Doctor Cardigan has not made another mistake, I want them all
here again. Will you arrange it?"

"Inspector Kedsty is waiting outside," said Father Layonne quietly,
"but I should not act in haste, Jimmy. I should wait. I should
think--think."

"You mean take time to think up a story that will hold water, _mon pere_?
I have that. I have the story. And yet--" He smiled a bit dismally. "I
did make one pretty thorough confession, didn't I, Father?"

"It was very convincing, Jimmy. It went so particularly into the
details, and those details, coupled with the facts that you were seen
at John Barkley's earlier in the evening, and that it was you who found
him dead a number of hours later--"

"All make a strong case against me," agreed Kent. "As a matter of fact,
I was up at Barkley's to look over an old map he had made of the
Porcupine country twenty years ago. He couldn't find it. Later he sent
word he had run across it. I returned and found him dead."

The little missioner nodded, but did not speak.

"It is embarrassing," Kent went on. "It almost seems as though I ought
to go through with it, like a sport. When a man loses, it isn't good
taste to set up a howl. It makes him sort of yellow-backed, you know.
To play the game according to rules, I suppose I ought to keep quiet
and allow myself to be hung without making any disturbance. Die game,
and all that, you know. Then there is the other way of looking at