There came at last a sudden irresistible pull at her senses, and she opened her eyes, awake.  Her head was no longer in the crook of Jolly Roger’s arm.  She could see him sitting up straight, and he was not looking at her.  It must be late, she thought, for the light was strong in his face, warm with the first golden flow of the sun.  She smiled, and sat up, and shook her soft curls with a happy little laugh.

“Roger—­”

And then she, too, was staring, wide-eyed and speechless.  For she saw Peter under Jolly Roger’s hand.  But it was not Peter who drew her breath short and sent fear cutting like a sharp knife through her heart.

Facing them, seated coldly on a log which McKay had dragged in from the timber, was a thin-faced sharp-eyed man who was studying them with an odd smile on his lips, and instantly Nada knew this man was Breault.

There was something peculiarly appalling about him as he sat there, in spite of the fact that for a few moments he neither spoke nor moved.  His eyes, Nada thought, were not like human eyes, and his lips were like the blades of two knives set together.  Yet he was smiling, or half smiling, not in a comforting or humorous way, but with exultation and triumph.  From looking at him one would never have guessed that Breault loved his joke.

He nodded.

“Good morning, Jolly Roger McKay!  And—­good morning, Mrs. Jolly Roger McKay!  Pardon me for watching you like this, but duty is duty.  I am Breault, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police.”

McKay wet his lips.  Breault saw him, and the grin on his thin face widened.

“I know, it’s hard,” he said.  “But you’ve got Peter to thank for it.  Peter led me to you.”

He stood up, and in a most casual fashion covered Jolly Roger with his automatic.

“Would you mind stepping out, McKay?” he asked.

In his other hand he dangled a pair of handcuffs.  McKay stood up, and Nada rose beside him, gripping his arms with both hands.

“No need of those things, Breault,” he said.  “I’ll go peaceably.”

“Still—­it’s safer,” argued Breault, a wicked glitter in his eyes.  “Hold out one hand, please—­”

The manacle snapped over Jolly Roger’s wrist.

“I’m Breault—­not Terence Cassidy,” he chuckled.  “Never take a chance, you know.  Never!”

Swift as a flash was his movement then, as the companion bracelet snapped over Nada’s wrist.  He stepped back, facing them with a grin.

“Got you both now, haven’t I?” he gloated.  “Can’t get away, can you?” He put his gun away, and bowed low to Nada.  “How do you like married life, Mrs. Jolly Roger?”

McKay’s face was whiter than Nada’s.

“You coward!” he spoke in a low, quiet voice.  “You low-down miserable coward.  You’re a disgrace to the Service.  Do you mean you are going to keep my wife ironed like this?”

“Sure,” said Breault.  “I’m going to make you pay for some of the trouble I’ve had over you.  I believe in a man paying his debts, you know.  And a woman, too.  And probably you’ve lied to her like the very devil.”