and from that Pierre
looked quickly away.

One by one he numbered his obligations to Martin Ryder, and first and
last he remembered the lie which had soothed his father. The money for
that corner plot where the grass grew first in the spring of the
year--where was he to find it? He fumbled in his pocket and found only
a single coin.

He leaned back against the wall and strove to concentrate on the
problem, but his thoughts wandered in spite of himself back to the
snows of Canada, to the letter, to the ride south, the death of the
roan, and so on until he reached his entry to that very room.

Looking backward, he remembered all things much more clearly than when
he had actually seen them. For instance, he recalled now that as he
walked through the door the two figures which had started up to block
his way had left behind them some playing-cards at the corner table.
One of these cards had slipped from the edge of the board and flickered
slowly to the floor.

With that memory the thoughts of Pierre le Rouge stopped. The picture
of the falling card remained; all else went out in his mind like the
snuffing of the candle. Then, as if he heard a voice directing him
through the utter blackness of the room, he knew what he must do.

All his wealth was the single half-dollar piece in his pocket, and
there was only one way in which that coin could be increased to the sum
he would need to buy that corner plot, where the soul of old Martin
Ryder could sleep long and deep.

From his brothers he would get no help. The least memory of those
sallow, hungry faces convinced him of that.

There remained the gaming table. In the north country he had watched
men sit in a silent circle, smoking, drinking, with the flare of an
oil-lamp against deep, seamed faces, and only the slip and whisper of
card against card.

Cold conscience tapped the shoulder of Pierre, remembering the lessons
of Father Victor, but a moment later his head went up and his eyes were
shining through the dark. After all, the end justified the means. It
was typical of him that sorrow sat lightly on him.

A moment later he was laughing softly as a boy in the midst of a prank,
and busily throwing off the robe of serge. Fumbling through the night
he located the shirt and overalls he had seen hanging from a nail on
the wall. Into these he slipped, leaned to kiss the chill, damp
forehead of the sleeper, and then went out under the open sky.

The rest had