y. But I know how deceptive appearances may be in
this valley, and--and it would break my heart if--a great wrong were
done, however inadvertently."

The wide reaches of the valley were spread out before them. Kate was
gazing away out westward, where, high up on the hillside, Charlie
Bryant's house was perched like an eagle's eyrie. Even at that
distance two figures could be seen standing on the veranda, and
neither she nor Fyles, who was following the direction of her gaze,
needed a second thought as to their identity.

"You're thinking of Charlie Bryant," the man said after a pause.
"You're warning me--off him."

"Maybe I am."

Kate's eyes challenged the officer fearlessly.

"Why?"

The man's searching eyes were not seeking those secrets which might
help his official capacity. Other feelings were stirring.

"Why? Because Charlie is a weak, sick creature, deserving all the pity
and help the strong can give him. Because he is a gentle, ailing man
who has only contrived to earn the contempt of most, for his weakness,
and the blame of those who are strong enough to help. Because he is,
for all his weaknesses, an--honest man."

Fyles gazed up at the house on the hillside again, and Kate's anxious
eyes watched him.

"Is that all?" he inquired presently. Nor could there be any mistake
as to the thought behind the question.

A dash of recklessness, that recklessness which her sister had
deplored the absence of, now drove Kate headlong.

"No. It is not all," she cried. "For five years I have been striving
to help him to escape from the demon which possesses him. Oh, and I
know how hopeless it has all been. I love Charlie, Mr. Fyles. I love
him as though he were my brother, or even my own son. I would do
anything in the world to save him, and I tell you frankly, openly, if
the police seek to fix any crime this valley is accused of upon him, I
will strive, by every possible means, whether right or wrong, to
defeat their ends."

The woman's face was aglow with reckless courage. Her eyes were
shining with an enthusiasm which the man before her delighted in. All
her defiance of him, of the law, only made her appeal the more surely.
But he was not thinking of her words. He was thinking of her beauty,
her courage, while he repeated her words mechanically.

"Your brother--or even your own son?"

"Yes, yes," Kate cried. Then she caught a sharp breath, and a deep
flush suffused her cheeks and brow. The significance of