he finished for him. "Marette Radisson, and I come from
away off there, from a place we call the Valley of Silent Men." She was
pointing into the north.

"The North!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, it is far north. Very far."

Her hand was on the latch. The door opened slowly.

"Wait," he pleaded again. "You must not go."

"Yes, I must go. I have remained too long. I am sorry I kissed you. I
shouldn't have done that. But I had to because you are such a splendid
liar!"

The door opened quickly and closed behind her. He heard her steps
almost running down the hall, where not long ago he had listened to the
last of O'Connor's.

And then there was silence, and in that silence he heard her words
again, drumming like little hammers in his head, "BECAUSE YOU ARE SUCH
A SPLENDID LIAR!"

CHAPTER VI

James Kent, among his other qualities good and bad, possessed a
merciless opinion of his own shortcomings, but never, in that opinion,
had he fallen so low as in the interval which immediately followed the
closing of his door behind the mysterious girl who had told him that
her name was Marette Radisson. No sooner was she gone than the
overwhelming superiority of her childlike cleverness smote him until,
ashamed of himself, he burned red in his aloneness.

He, Sergeant Kent, the coolest man on the force next to Inspector
Kedsty, the most dreaded of catechists when questioning criminals, the
man who had won the reputation of facing quietly and with deadly
sureness the most menacing of dangers, had been beaten--horribly
beaten--by a girl! And yet, in defeat, an irrepressible and at times
distorted sense of humor made him give credit to the victor. The shame
of the thing was his acknowledgment that a bit of feminine beauty had
done the trick. He had made fun of O'Connor when the big staff-sergeant
had described the effect of the girl's eyes on Inspector Kedsty. And,
now, if O'Connor could know of what had happened here--

And then, like a rubber ball, that saving sense of humor bounced up out
of the mess, and Kent found himself chuckling as his face grew cooler.
His visitor had come, and she had gone, and he knew no more about her
than when she had entered his room, except that her very pretty name
was Marette Radisson. He was just beginning to think of the questions
he had wanted to ask, a dozen, half a hundred of them--more definitely
who she was; how and why she had come to Athabasca Landing; her
interest in Sandy McTrig