“Why?  Do be calm.  Tell me.”

“Why, last night,” he began hurriedly, but broke off to listen to the Scandinavian previously sworn, who was speaking with ponderous slowness.

“I wake wide open quick,” he was saying.  “I coom to the door.  I there hear one shot more.”

He was interrupted by a warm-complexioned man, clad in faded mackinaws.  “What did you think?” he asked.

“Eh?” the witness queried, his face dark and troubled with perplexity.

“When you came to the door, what was your first thought?”

“A-w-w,” the man sighed, his face clearing and infinite comprehension sounding in his voice.  “I have no moccasins.  I t’ink pretty damn cold.”  His satisfied expression changed to naive surprise when an outburst of laughter greeted his statement, but he went on stolidly.  “One more shot I hear, and I run down the trail.”

Then Corliss pressed in through the crowd to Frona, and she lost what the man was saying.

“What’s up?” the engineer was asking.  “Anything serious?  Can I be of any use?”

“Yes, yes.”  She caught his hand gratefully.  “Get over the back-channel somehow and tell my father to come.  Tell him that Gregory St. Vincent is in trouble; that he is charged with—­ What are you charged with, Gregory?” she asked, turning to him.

“Murder.”

“Murder?” from Corliss.

“Yes, yes.  Say that he is charged with murder; that I am here; and that I need him.  And tell him to bring me some clothes.  And, Vance,”—­with a pressure of the hand and swift upward look,—­“don’t take any . . . any big chances, but do try to make it.”

“Oh, I’ll make it all right.”  He tossed his head confidently and proceeded to elbow his way towards the door.

“Who is helping you in your defence?” she asked St. Vincent.

He shook his head.  “No.  They wanted to appoint some one,—­a renegade lawyer from the States, Bill Brown,—­but I declined him.  He’s taken the other side, now.  It’s lynch law, you know, and their minds are made up.  They’re bound to get me.”

“I wish there were time to hear your side.”

“But, Frona, I am innocent.  I—­”

“S-sh!” She laid her hand on his arm to hush him, and turned her attention to the witness.

“So the noospaper feller, he fight like anything; but Pierre and me, we pull him into the shack.  He cry and stand in one place—­”

“Who cried?” interrupted the prosecuting lawyer.

“Him.  That feller there.”  The Scandinavian pointed directly at St. Vincent.  “And I make a light.  The slush-lamp I find spilt over most everything, but I have a candle in my pocket.  It is good practice to carry a candle in the pocket,” he affirmed gravely.  “And Borg he lay on the floor dead.  And the squaw say he did it, and then she die, too.”

“Said who did it?”

Again his accusing finger singled out St. Vincent.  “Him.  That feller there.”