“And you found him?”

“Yes.  I came upon my brother first.  And I lied.  I told him he had made a mistake, and killed you, that his life was not worth the quill from a porcupine’s back if he remained in the country.  I made him believe it was another who fought him in the forest.  He fled.  I am glad of that.  He will never come back.  Then I followed over the trail he had made to Adare House, and far back in the swamp I came upon them, waiting for him.  I passed myself off as my brother, and I tricked the man I was after.  We went a distance from the camp—­alone—­and I was choking the life from him, when the two others that were with him came upon us.  He was dying, M’sieur!  He was black in the face, and his tongue was out.  Another second—­two or three at the most—­and I would have brought ruin upon every soul at Adare House.  For he was dying.  And if I had killed him all would have been lost!”

“That is impossible!” gasped Philip, as the half-breed paused.  “If you had killed him—­”

“All would have been lost,” repeated Jean, in a strange, hard voice.  “Listen, M’sieur.  The two others leaped upon me.  I fought.  And then I was struck on the head, and when I came to my senses I was in the light of the campfire, and the man I had come to kill was over me.  One of the other men was Thoreau, the Free Trader.  He had told who I was.  It was useless to lie.  I told the truth—­that I had come to kill him, and why.  And then—­in the light of that campfire, M’sieur—­he proved to me what it would have meant if I had succeeded.  Thoreau carried the paper.  It was in an envelope, addressed to the master of Adare.  They tore this open, that I might read.  And in that paper, written by the man I had come to kill, was the whole terrible story, every detail—­and it made me cold and sick.  Perhaps you begin to understand, M’sieur.  Perhaps you will see more clearly when I tell you—­”

“Yes, yes,” urged Philip.

“—­that this man, the father of the baby, is the Lang who owns Thoreau, who owns that freebooters’ hell, who owns the string of them from here to the Athabasca, and who lives in Montreal!”

Philip could only stare at Jean, who went on, his face the colour of gray ash in the starlight.

“I must tell you the rest.  You must understand before the great fight comes.  You know—­the terrible thing happened in Montreal.  And this man Lang—­all the passion of hell is in his soul!  He is rich.  He has power up here, for he owns Thoreau and all his cutthroats.  And he is not satisfied with the ruin he worked down there.  He has followed Josephine.  He is mad with passion—­with the desire—­”

“Good God, don’t tell me more of that!” cried Philip.  “I understand.  He has followed.  And Josephine is to be the price of his silence!”