“Because I thought it would make it easier for you to confess to me—­”

“Confess to you?  I’ve nothing to confess—­I’ve loved you honestly!  Did you think I’d been carrying on some nasty sneaking intrigue with a friend’s wife—­did you think I was that sort of a fellow—­the sort of a fellow North is?  Do you take me for a common blackguard?”

“Marsh, don’t!  Marshall, please—­for my sake—­” and she clung to him, but he cast her off roughly.

“Keep away from me!” he said with sullen repression, but there was a murderous light in his eyes.  “Don’t touch me!” he warned.

“But say you forgive me!”

“Forgive you—­” He laughed.

“Yes, forgive me—­Marsh!”

“Forgive you—­no, by God!”

He reached for the bottle.

“Not that—­not that, Marsh; your promise only a moment ago—­your promise, Marsh!”

But he poured himself half a tumbler of whisky and emptied it at a swallow.

“To hell with my promise!” he said, and strode from the room.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE FINGER OF SUSPICION

In Chicago Conklin found an angry young man at police headquarters, and the name of this young man was John North.

“This is a most damnable outrage!” he cried hotly the moment he espied Mount Hope’s burly sheriff.

“I am mighty sorry to have interfered with your plans, John—­just mighty sorry.”  The sheriff’s tone was meant to soothe and conciliate.  “But you see we are counting on you to throw some light on the McBride murder.”

“So that’s it!  I tell you, Conklin, I consider that I have been treated with utter discourtesy; I’ve been a virtual prisoner here over night!”

“That’s too bad, John,” said the sheriff sympathetically, “but we didn’t know where a wire would reach you, so there didn’t seem any other way than this—­”

“Well, what do you want with me?” demanded North, with rather less heat than had marked his previous speech.

“They got the idea back home that you can help in the McBride matter,” explained the sheriff again.  “I see that you know he’s been murdered.”

“Yes, I knew that before I left Mount Hope,” rejoined North.

“Did you, though?” said the sheriff briefly, and this admission of North’s appeared to furnish him with food for reflection.

“Well, what do I know that will be of use to you?” asked North impatiently.

“You ain’t to make any statement to me, John,” returned the sheriff hastily.

“Do you mean you expect me to go back to Mount Hope?” inquired North in a tone of mingled wonder and exasperation.

The sheriff nodded.

“That’s the idea, John,” he said placidly.

“What if I refuse to go back?”

The sheriff looked pained.

“Oh, you won’t do that—­what’s the use?”

“Do you mean—­” began North savagely, but Conklin interposed.