digs up a six-year-old grave. They won't find Hugh. Nobody's ever
seen him. Don't shake so, Sylvie. They may not even be after him; this
country has sheltered other outlaws, you know. Hush! I hear them. I'll
be in the kitchen. Pete, be taking off your outdoor clothes. They'll
have seen Hugh's tracks even if they haven't seen him, so somebody's
got to have just come in. Be whistling and talking, natural and calm.
Remember we're all at home, just quiet and happy--no reason to be
afraid. That's it."

Through her darkness Sylvie heard the knocking and Pete's opening of
the door, the scraping of snow, the questions, the simplicity of Pete's
replies.

Then she was made known. "My wife, gentlemen!" And a moment later: "My
mother!" And she heard Bella's greeting, loud and cheerful like that
of a woman who is glad to see a visitor. Chairs were drawn up and
cigarettes rolled and lighted. She smelt the sharp sweetness of the
smoke. There was brief talk of the weather; Sylvie felt that while
they talked, the two strangers searched the place and the faces of its
inmates with cold, keen, suspicious eyes. She was grateful now for her
blindness. There came a sharp statement:

"We're looking for Ham Rutherford, the murderer." Sylvie's heart
contracted in her breast.

"Well, sir," laughed Pete, in his most boyish, light-hearted fashion,
"that sounds interesting. But it's a new name to me."

"It's an old case, however," said the man, the man who spoke more like
an Easterner than the sheriff. "Fifteen years old! They've dug it up
again back East. The daughter of the man that was killed came into some
money and thinks she can't spend it any better than in hunting down her
father's murderer. Now, we've traced Rutherford to this country, and
pretty close to this spot. He made a getaway before trial, and he came
out here fifteen years ago. About two years later he sent back East for
his kid brother--he'd be about your age now, Mr.--what you say your name
was?--Garth, Peter Garth. You'll have to excuse the sheriff; he's bound
to search your place." Sylvie had heard the footsteps going through
the three rooms. "A woman named Bertha Scrane, a distant cousin of
Rutherford's to whom he'd been kind, brought the child out. Now,
Missis--what's your name?"

"Bella Garth," she said tranquilly. "I came out here with my husband,
who died six years ago. He's buried out there under the snow. I've lived
here with my son and my son's wife."

"Yes.