It was like a little shiver running through her. For
only a flash it seemed to him that he had caught a glimpse of something
terrible, a thing she was hiding, a thing she was fighting as she stood
there with her two little clenched hands. For in her face, in her eyes,
in the beating throb of her white throat he saw, in that moment, the
almost hidden agony of a hurt thing. And then it was gone, even as he
entreated again, pleading for her faith.

"I did not kill John Barkley!"

"I am not thinking of that, Jeems," she said. "It is of something--"

They had forgotten the storm. It was howling and beating at the windows
outside. But suddenly there came a sound that rose above the monotonous
tumult of it, and Marette started as if it had sent an electric shock
through her. Kent, too, turned toward the window.

It was the metallic tap, tap, tapping which once before had warned them
of approaching danger. And this time it was insistent. It was as if a
voice was crying out to them from beyond the window. It was more than
premonition--it was the alarm of a near and impending menace. And in
that moment Kent saw Marette Radisson's hands go swiftly to her throat
and her eyes leap with sudden fire, and she gave a little cry as she
listened to the sound.

CHAPTER XVII

In ten seconds, it seemed to Kent, Marette Radisson was again the
splendid creature who had held the three men at bay over the end of her
little black gun at barracks. The sound of Mooie's second warning came
at first as a shock. Accompanying it there was a moment of fear, of
fear driven almost to the point of actual terror. Following it came a
reaction so swift that Kent was dazed. Within those ten seconds the
girl's slender body seemed to grow taller; a new light flamed in her
face; her eyes, turning swiftly to him, were filled with the same fire
with which they had faced the three constables. She was unafraid. She
was ready to fight.

In such moments as these it was the quiet and dispassionate composure
of her voice that amazed him most. It was musical in its softness now.
Yet in that softness was a hidden thing. It was like velvet covering
steel. She had spoken of Niska, the Gray Goose, the goddess of the
Three Rivers. And he thought that something of the spirit of a goddess
must be in Marette Radisson to give her the courage with which she
faced him, even as the metallic thing outside tapped its warning again
at the window.

"Inspector Kedsty is