ime
in two weeks a cloud of smoke issued from between Kent's lips.

"The brigade is starting north," he said.

"Mostly Mackenzie River freight," replied Cardigan. "A long run."

"The finest in all the North. Three years ago O'Connor and I made it
with the Follette outfit. Remember Follette--and Ladouceur? They both
loved the same girl, and being good friends they decided to settle the
matter by a swim through the Death Chute. The man who came through
first was to have her. Gawd, Cardigan, what funny things happen!
Follette came out first, but he was dead. He'd brained himself on a
rock. And to this day Ladouceur hasn't married the girl, because he
says Follette beat him; and that Follette's something-or-other would
haunt him if he didn't play fair. It's a queer--"

He stopped and listened. In the hall was the approaching tread of
unmistakable feet.

"O'Connor," he said.

Cardigan went to the door and opened it as O'Connor was about to knock.
When the door closed again, the staff-sergeant was in the room alone
with Kent. In one of his big hands he clutched a box of cigars, and in
the other he held a bunch of vividly red fire-flowers.

"Father Layonne shoved these into my hands as I was coming up," he
explained, dropping them on the table. "And I--well--I'm breaking
regulations to come up an' tell you something, Jimmy. I never called
you a liar in my life, but I'm calling you one now!"

He was gripping Kent's hands in the fierce clasp of a friendship that
nothing could kill. Kent winced, but the pain of it was joy. He had
feared that O'Connor, like Kedsty, must of necessity turn against him.
Then he noticed something unusual in O'Connor's face and eyes. The
staff-sergeant was not easily excited, yet he was visibly disturbed now.

"I don't know what the others saw, when you were making that
confession, Kent. Mebby my eyesight was better because I spent a year
and a half with you on the trail. You were lying. What's your game, old
man?"

Kent groaned. "Have I got to go all over it again?" he appealed.

O'Connor began thumping back and forth over the floor. Kent had seen
him that way sometimes in camp when there were perplexing problems
ahead of them.

"You didn't kill John Barkley," he insisted. "I don't believe you did,
and Inspector Kedsty doesn't believe it--yet the mighty queer part of
it is--"

"What?"

"That Kedsty is acting on your confession in a big hurry. I don't
believe it's according to Hoyle,