ably alone, I dare not tell. Yet, if what
Strangeways said to me is true, that her body was found at Forty-Mile
in a woman's dress, which would mean that Spurling killed her,
well-knowing that she was a girl, why then I would go in search of
him, and tell him what I thought about him, and shoot him carefully,
and be glad when he was dead."

"But you have promised God to leave him alone with Himself."

"And shall I be the first man who has gone back on his prayers and
promises? There's nothing to be gained by talking about it; fate must
work itself out. But if you want to understand what Strangeways felt,
and what I am still feeling, then look at that."

He handed him the locket. Pere Antoine took it and bent above it. At
last he said, "Why, she's only a girl . . . and he killed _her_!"

"Yes, and he killed her when her back was turned. Now do you
understand?"

"May God help you!" was all that Antoine said. Granger went over to
where he sat and, from above his shoulder, gazed down upon the
portrait. The face had in it so little that was tragic that it seemed
impossible to realise that its owner should have encountered such a
death. When the smile upon the painted lips seemed so fresh and
imperishable, it seemed incredible that the lips themselves should be
now silent and underground.

"I wonder where she lived and what sort of a girlhood she had,"
Granger said.

"I have here two letters which I found upon Strangeways; perhaps they
may tell us something about her."

Pere Antoine produced the letters from an oilskin pouch. They were in
a pointed feminine hand, and the ink was faded. Granger lit the lamp,
for the twilight without was deepening into darkness; spreading out
the crumpled sheets on his knees before him, he read their contents
aloud. Across the top, left-hand corner of the uppermost page was
scrawled in a rude, boyish writing, "_The first letter she ever wrote
me_"; the letter itself had been evidently penned by a young girl's
hand. It bore the address of a school in London, and ran as follows:--

DEAR ERIC.

I am very miserable hear and sometimes wonder why I was
ever brought into the world. Your Papa was very kind to
me once, but why has he scent me away from you? You did
not want me to be scent, and so I can tell you all
about myself. I am very home-sick hear. I say
home-sick, though I have no home; I have always been a
stranger in your Papa's house. I sup