y."

"O'Connor!"

Kent sprang to his feet. It took McTrigger but a moment to read the
truth in his face.

"Good God, do you mean to tell me you don't know, Kent?" he whispered
tensely, rising in front of the other. "Haven't you seen O'Connor?
Haven't you come in touch with the Police anywhere within the last
year? Don't you know--?"

"I know nothing," breathed Kent.

For a space McTrigger stared at him in amazement

"I have been in hiding," said Kent. "All this time I have been keeping
away from the Police."

McTrigger drew a deep breath. Again his hands gripped Kent's, and his
voice was incredulous, filled with a great wonder. "And you have come
to her, to her old home, believing that Marette killed Kedsty! It is
hard to believe. And yet--" Into his face came suddenly a look of
grief, almost of pain, and Kent, following his eyes, saw that he was
looking at a big stone fireplace in the end of the room.

"It was O'Connor who worked the thing out last Winter," he said,
speaking with, an effort. "I must tell you before you see her again.
You must understand everything. It will not do to have her tell you.
See--"

Kent followed him to the fireplace. From the shelf over the stonework
McTrigger took a picture and gave it to him. It was a snapshot, the
picture of a bare-headed man standing in the open with the sun shining
on him.

A low cry broke from Kent's lips. It was the great, gray ghost of a man
he had seen in the lightning flare that night from the window of his
hiding-place in Kedsty's bungalow.

"My brother," said McTrigger chokingly. "I loved him. For forty years
we were comrades. And Marette belonged to us, half and half. It was
he--who killed--John Barkley." And then, after a moment in which
McTrigger fought to speak steadily, he added, "And it was he--my
brother--who also killed Inspector Kedsty."

For a matter of seconds there was a dead silence between them.
McTrigger looked into the fireplace instead of at Kent. Then he said:

"He killed those men, but he didn't murder them, Kent. It couldn't be
called that. It was justice, single-man justice, without going to law.
If it wasn't for Marette, I wouldn't tell you about it--not the
horrible part of it. I don't like to bring it up in my memory. ... It
happened years ago. I was not married then, but my brother was ten
years older than I and had a wife. I think that Marette loves you as
Marie loved Donald. And Donald's love was more than that. It was