Kent felt himself suddenly aglow with an irresistible appreciation of the genius of her subtlety, and with that appreciation came a thrill of deeper understanding.  He believed that he knew why she had left him so suddenly.  It was because she had seen herself close to the danger-line.  There were things which she did not want him to know or question her about, and his daring intimation that she was hiding in Kedsty’s bungalow had warned her.  Was it possible that Kedsty himself had sent her for some reason which he could not even guess at?  Positively it was not because of McTrigger, the man he had saved.  At least she would have thanked him in some way.  She would not have appeared quite so adorably cold-blooded, quite so sweetly unconscious of the fact that he was dying.  If McTrigger’s freedom had meant anything to her, she could not have done less than reveal to him a bit of sympathy.  And her greatest compliment, if he excepted the kiss, was that she had called him a splendid liar!

Kent grimaced and drew in a deep breath because of the tightness in his chest.  Why was it that every one seemed to disbelieve him?  Why was it that even this mysterious girl, whom he had never seen before in his life, politely called him a liar when he insisted that he had killed John Barkley?  Was the fact of murder necessarily branded in one’s face?  If so, he had never observed it.  Some of the hardest criminals he had brought in from the down-river country were likable-looking men.  There was Horrigan, for instance, who for seven long weeks kept him in good humor with his drollery, though he was bringing him in to be hanged.  And there were McTab, and le Bete Noir—­the Black Beast—­a lovable vagabond in spite of his record, and Le Beau, the gentlemanly robber of the wilderness mail, and half a dozen others he could recall without any effort at all.  No one called them liars when, like real men, they confessed their crimes when they saw their game was up.  To a man they had given up the ghost with their boots on, and Kent respected their memory because of it.  And he was dying—­and even this stranger girl called him a liar?  And no case had ever been more complete than his own.  He had gone mercilessly into the condemning detail of it all.  It was down in black and white.  He had signed it.  And still he was disbelieved.  It was funny, deuced funny, thought Kent.

Until young Mercer opened the door and came in with his late breakfast, he had forgotten that he had really been hungry when he awakened with Cardigan’s stethoscope at his chest.  Mercer had amused him from the first.  The pink-faced young Englishman, fresh from the old country, could not conceal in his face and attitude the fact that he was walking in the presence of the gallows whenever he entered the room.  He was, as he had confided in Cardigan, “beastly hit up” over the thing.  To feed and wash a man who would undoubtedly die, but who would be hanged by the neck until he was dead if he lived, filled him with peculiar and at times conspicuous emotions.  It was like attending to a living corpse, if such a thing could be conceived.  And Mercer had conceived it.  Kent had come to regard him as more or less of a barometer giving away Cardigan’s secrets.  He had not told Cardigan, but had kept the discovery for his own amusement.