that vengeance could bring such hellish joy.  I could still hear their gloating laughter when I stumbled out into the night.  It haunted me.  I heard it in the trees.  It came in the wind.  My brain was filled with it—­and suddenly I turned back, and I went into that house again without knocking, and I faced the two of them alone once more in that room.  And this time, Conniston, I went back to get justice—­or to kill.  Thus far it was premeditated, but I went with my naked hands.  There was a key in the door, and I locked it.  Then I made my demand.  I wasted no words—­”

Keith rose from the table and began to pace back and forth.  The wind had died again.  They could hear the yapping of the foxes and the low thunder of the ice.

“The son began it,” said Keith.  “He sprang at me.  I struck him.  We grappled, and then the beast himself leaped at me with some sort of weapon in his hand.  I couldn’t see what it was, but it was heavy.  The first blow almost broke my shoulder.  In the scuffle I wrenched it from his hand, and then I found it was a long, rectangular bar of copper made for a paper-weight.  In that same instant I saw the son snatch up a similar object from the table, and in the act he smashed the table light.  In darkness we fought.  I did not feel that I was fighting men.  They were monsters and gave me the horrible sensation of being in darkness with crawling serpents.  Yes, I struck hard.  And the son was striking, and neither of us could see.  I felt my weapon hit, and it was then that Kirkstone crumpled down with a blubbery wheeze.  You know what happened after that.  The next morning only one copper weight was found in that room.  The son had done away with the other.  And the one that was left was covered with Kirkstone’s blood and hair.  There was no chance for me.  So I got away.  Six months later my father died in prison, and for three years I’ve been hunted as a fox is hunted by the hounds.  That’s all, Conniston.  Did I kill Judge Kirkstone?  And, if I killed him, do you think I’m sorry for it, even though I hang?”

“Sit down!”

The Englishman’s voice was commanding.  Keith dropped back to his seat, breathing hard.  He saw a strange light in the steely blue eyes of Conniston.

“Keith, when a man knows he’s going to live, he is blind to a lot of things.  But when he knows he’s going to die, it’s different.  If you had told me that story a month ago, I’d have taken you down to the hangman just the same.  It would have been my duty, you know, and I might have argued you were lying.  But you can’t lie to me—­now.  Kirkstone deserved to die.  And so I’ve made up my mind what you’re going to do.  You’re not going back to Coronation Gulf.  You’re going south.  You’re going back into God’s country again.  And you’re not going as John Keith, the murderer, but as Derwent Conniston of His Majesty’s Royal Northwest Mounted Police!  Do you get me, Keith?  Do you understand?”

Keith simply stared.  The Englishman twisted a mustache, a half-humorous gleam in his eyes.  He had been thinking of this plan of his for some time, and he had foreseen just how it would take Keith off his feet.