the deadliest game of all.  He saw it.  He felt it.  The thing gripped him.  In the eyes of that Law of which he had so recently been a part he was a murderer.  And in the province of Alberta the penalty for killing a man was hanging.  Because horror and fear did not seize upon him, he wondered if he still realized the situation.  He believed that he did.  It was merely a matter of human nature.  Death, he had supposed, was a fixed and foregone thing.  He had believed that only a few hours of life were left for him.  And now it was given back to him, for months at least.  It was a glorious reprieve, and—­

Suddenly his heart stood still in the thrill of the thought that came to him.  Marette Radisson had known that he was not going to die!  She had hinted the fact, and he, like a blundering idiot, had failed to catch the significance of it.  She had given him no sympathy, had laughed at him, had almost made fun of him, simply because she knew that he was going to live!

He turned suddenly on Father Layonne.

“They shall believe me!” he cried.  “I shall make them believe me!  Mon pere, I lied!  I lied to save Sandy McTrigger, and I shall tell them why.  If Doctor Cardigan has not made another mistake, I want them all here again.  Will you arrange it?”

“Inspector Kedsty is waiting outside,” said Father Layonne quietly, “but I should not act in haste, Jimmy.  I should wait.  I should think—­think.”

“You mean take time to think up a story that will hold water, mon pere?  I have that.  I have the story.  And yet—­” He smiled a bit dismally.  “I did make one pretty thorough confession, didn’t I, Father?”

“It was very convincing, Jimmy.  It went so particularly into the details, and those details, coupled with the facts that you were seen at John Barkley’s earlier in the evening, and that it was you who found him dead a number of hours later—­”

“All make a strong case against me,” agreed Kent.  “As a matter of fact, I was up at Barkley’s to look over an old map he had made of the Porcupine country twenty years ago.  He couldn’t find it.  Later he sent word he had run across it.  I returned and found him dead.”

The little missioner nodded, but did not speak.

“It is embarrassing,” Kent went on.  “It almost seems as though I ought to go through with it, like a sport.  When a man loses, it isn’t good taste to set up a howl.  It makes him sort of yellow-backed, you know.  To play the game according to rules, I suppose I ought to keep quiet and allow myself to be hung without making any disturbance.  Die game, and all that, you know.  Then there is the other way of looking at it.  This poor neck of mine depends on me.  It has given me a lot of good service.  It has been mighty loyal.  It has even swallowed eggs on the day it thought it was going to die.  And I’d be a poor specimen of humanity to go back on it now.  I want to do that neck a good turn.  I want to save it.  And I’m going to—­if I can!”