pace back and forth. The wind
had died again. They could hear the yapping of the foxes and the low
thunder of the ice.

"The son began it," said Keith. "He sprang at me. I struck him. We
grappled, and then the beast himself leaped at me with some sort of
weapon in his hand. I couldn't see what it was, but it was heavy. The
first blow almost broke my shoulder. In the scuffle I wrenched it from
his hand, and then I found it was a long, rectangular bar of copper
made for a paper-weight. In that same instant I saw the son snatch up a
similar object from the table, and in the act he smashed the table
light. In darkness we fought. I did not feel that I was fighting men.
They were monsters and gave me the horrible sensation of being in
darkness with crawling serpents. Yes, I struck hard. And the son was
striking, and neither of us could see. I felt my weapon hit, and it was
then that Kirkstone crumpled down with a blubbery wheeze. You know what
happened after that. The next morning only one copper weight was found
in that room. The son had done away with the other. And the one that
was left was covered with Kirkstone's blood and hair. There was no
chance for me. So I got away. Six months later my father died in
prison, and for three years I've been hunted as a fox is hunted by the
hounds. That's all, Conniston. Did I kill Judge Kirkstone? And, if I
killed him, do you think I'm sorry for it, even though I hang?"

"Sit down!"

The Englishman's voice was commanding. Keith dropped back to his seat,
breathing hard. He saw a strange light in the steely blue eyes of
Conniston.

"Keith, when a man knows he's going to live, he is blind to a lot of
things. But when he knows he's going to die, it's different. If you had
told me that story a month ago, I'd have taken you down to the hangman
just the same. It would have been my duty, you know, and I might have
argued you were lying. But you can't lie to me--now. Kirkstone deserved
to die. And so I've made up my mind what you're going to do. You're not
going back to Coronation Gulf. You're going south. You're going back
into God's country again. And you're not going as John Keith, the
murderer, but as Derwent Conniston of His Majesty's Royal Northwest
Mounted Police! Do you get me, Keith? Do you understand?"

Keith simply stared. The Englishman twisted a mustache, a half-humorous
gleam in his eyes. He had been thinking of this plan of his for some
time, and he had foreseen just how i