Kedsty spoke to the girl.  For half an hour she read her notes, and after that Kent wrote his name on the last page.  Then Kedsty rose from his chair.

“We have finished, gentlemen,” he said.

They trailed out, the girl hurrying through the door first in her desire to free herself of an ordeal that had strained every nerve in her body.  The commander of N Division was last to go.  Cardigan hesitated, as if to remain, but Kedsty motioned him on.  It was Kedsty who closed the door, and as he closed it he looked back, and for a flash Kent met his eyes squarely.  In that moment he received an impression which he had not caught while the Inspector was in the room.  It was like an electrical shock in its unexpectedness, and Kedsty must have seen the effect of it in his face, for he moved back quickly and closed the door.  In that instant Kent had seen in Kedsty’s eyes and face a look that was not only of horror, but what in the face and eyes of another man he would have sworn was fear.

It was a gruesome moment in which to smile, but Kent smiled.  The shock was over.  By the rules of the Criminal Code he knew that Kedsty even now was instructing Staff-Sergeant O’Connor to detail an officer to guard his door.  The fact that he was ready to pop off at any moment would make no difference in the regulations of the law.  And Kedsty was a stickler for the law as it was written.  Through the closed door he heard voices indistinctly.  Then there were footsteps, dying away.  He could hear the heavy thump, thump of O’Connor’s big feet.  O’Connor had always walked like that, even on the trail.

Softly then the door reopened, and Father Layonne, the little missioner, came in.  Kent knew that this would be so, for Father Layonne knew neither code nor creed that did not reach all the hearts of the wilderness.  He came back, and sat down close to Kent, and took one of his hands and held it closely in both of his own.  They were not the soft, smooth hands of the priestly hierarchy, but were hard with the callosity of toil, yet gentle with the gentleness of a great sympathy.  He had loved Kent yesterday, when Kent had stood clean in the eyes of both God and men, and he still loved him today, when his soul was stained with a thing that must be washed away with his own life.

“I’m sorry, lad,” he said.  “I’m sorry.”

Something rose up in Kent’s throat that was not the blood he had been wiping away since morning.  His fingers returned the pressure of the little missioner’s hands.  Then he pointed out through the window to the panorama of shimmering river and green forests.

“It is hard to say good-by to all that, Father,” he said.  “But, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.  I’m not afraid of it.  And why be unhappy because one has only a little while to live?  Looking back over your life, does it seem so very long ago that you were a boy, a small boy?”

“The time has gone swiftly, very swiftly.”