“My God, Kent, how I wish you had made it!”

It was four o’clock when Fingers came.  Even less than yesterday did he look like the old Fingers.  He was not wheezing.  He seemed to have lost flesh.  His face was alive.  That was what struck Kent —­the new life in it.  There was color in his eyes.  And Togs, the dog, was not with him.  He smiled when he shook hands with Kent, and nodded, and chuckled.  And Kent, after that, gripped him by the shoulders and shook him in his silent joy.

“I was up all last night,” said Fingers in a low voice.  “I don’t dare move much in the day, or people will wonder.  But, God bless my soul!—­I did move last night, Kent.  I must have walked ten miles, more or less.  And things are coming—­coming!”

“And Ponte, Kinoo, Mooie—?”

“Are working like devils,” whispered Fingers.  “It’s the only way, Kent.  I’ve gone through all my law, and there’s nothing in man-made law that can save you.  I’ve read your confession, and I don’t think you could even get off with the penitentiary.  A noose is already tied around your neck.  I think you’d hang.  We’ve simply got to get you out some other way.  I’ve had a talk with Kedsty.  He has made arrangements to have you sent to Edmonton two weeks from tomorrow.  We’ll need all that time, but it’s enough.”

For three days thereafter Fingers came to Kent’s cell each afternoon, and each time was looking better.  Something was swiftly putting hardness into his flesh and form into his body.  The second day he told Kent that he had found the way at last, and that when the hour came, escape would be easy, but he thought it best not to let Kent in on the little secret just yet.  He must be patient and have faith.  That was the chief thing, to have faith at all times, no matter what happened.  Several times he emphasized that “no matter what happens.”  The third day he puzzled Kent.  He was restless, a bit nervous.  He still thought it best not to tell Kent what his scheme was, until to-morrow.  He was in the cell not more than five or ten minutes, and there was an unusual pressure in the grip of his hand when he bade Kent good-by.  Somehow Kent did not feel so well when he had gone.  He waited impatiently for the next day.  It came, and hour after hour he listened for Fingers’ heavy tread in the hall.  The morning passed.  The afternoon lengthened.  Night came, and Fingers had not come.  Kent did not sleep much between the hour when he went to bed and morning.  It was eleven o’clock when the missioner made his call.  Before he left, Kent gave him a brief note for Fingers.  He had just finished his dinner, and Carter had taken the dishes away, when Father Layonne returned.  A look at his face, and Kent knew that he bore unpleasant tidings.

“Fingers is an—­an apostate,” he said, his lips twitching as if to keep back a denunciation still more emphatic.  “He was sitting on his porch again this morning, half asleep, and says that after a great deal of thought he has come to the definite opinion that he can do nothing for you.  He read your note and burned it with a match.  He asked me to tell you that the scheme he had in mind was too risky—­for him.  He says he won’t come up again.  And—­”