Kitabı oku: «The Lady of North Star», sayfa 7

“My dear Bracknell, you are too late. Our supper is already ordered. On another occasion, perhaps, but tonight it is quite impossible.”

“You did not tell me you had an admirer,” he said to Joy, rallying her a little time later.

“An admirer!” Joy laughed. “Who – ”

“Young Bracknell! He is most obviously in love with you.”

“Oh no! no!” whispered Joy quickly, all the laughter dying suddenly from her face. “You are mistaken. It … it would be too … too…”

The sentence went unfinished, and Sir Joseph, noticing her face, did not press for the conclusion. He was silent for a little time, wondering what lay behind her sudden change of manner. Then he spoke again.

“Young Bracknell is not your only admirer,” he said smilingly. “You have another.”

“Indeed,” said Joy, very obviously embarrassed.

“Yes! Adrian is very deeply in love. He confided the fact to me this morning… I hope, my dear, that you will be able to listen to him, that you will be able to give a favourable – ”

“Oh!” interrupted Joy nervously, “you must not ask me, uncle. I shall never marry. Never!”

“Never, my dear Joy! That, it is often remarked, is a very long time!” He smiled indulgently as he spoke, and then added, “I hope we may yet induce you to reconsider your very youthful decision.”

Joy did not answer. Her face was very pale, and she sat staring at the stage with tragic eyes, not watching the actors, but visioning a body lying in the snow in the sombre woods at North Star.

CHAPTER XII
A DASTARDLY DEED

“HOW!”

As Corporal Roger Bracknell opened his eyes, this characteristic Indian greeting broke on his ears, and he stirred uneasily. Slowly the full consciousness of things came back to him, and with it the sense of intolerable pain in one of his legs. He raised his head to look at the leg and stretched a hand towards it at the same time. Another hand intervened hastily.

“No. Not dat! You damage ze leg, if you touch. It vaire bad!”

The corporal turned his eyes. The two men were standing near the bale of skins on which he was lying, one of them of pure Indian blood, and the second, who had uttered the warning, manifestly a half-breed. Behind them in the darkness of the tepee was a third man, also an Indian. He addressed himself to the half-breed.

“How did I come here?”

“Lagoun and Canim dey find you on ze trail. A tree hav’ fallen an’ crack your leg like a shell of the egg. You not able to move, so dat eef dey not come soon, you dead mans along of ze cold which freeze ze blood. Dey bring you here an’ I set ze leg, so dat it grow together again. Dat is all!”

Coporal Bracknell looked towards the two Indians. “I am very grateful to you, Lagoun and Canim, and I shall not forget,” he said. “I shall report good of them at the Post. But where am I?”

“At ze winter encampment of my people!” was the reply.

“Of your people. Who are you then?”

“I am Chief Louis of ze Elkhorn tribe. You hear of me, maybe?”

“Yes,” answered the corporal quickly. “Who is there that has not?”

He looked with interest on the man, who was the son of a French-Canadian and an Indian mother, and who throwing in his lot with his mother’s people had risen to the headship of the tribe. And whilst he looked at him the Chief spoke again.

“It ees not good to walk alone in ze North without dogs an’ sled as Lagoun and Canim find you.”

“It is very bad,” laughed the policeman weakly. “But part of my dogs were stolen from me, and the others died.”

“Dat is vaire bad,” was the reply. “Lagoun and Canim dey find ze sled, and dead wolves – many of dem. Dey haf been poisoned. How befell it, so?”

The corporal explained, carefully avoiding any reference to his cousin and the latter’s Indian companion, and when he had finished, the Chief nodded approbation.

“Dat was clevaire to poison ze wolves, for dey hav’ ze hunger-madness at dis time, ze mooze being scarce in ze woods.”

For a little time Bracknell did not speak, then he glanced down towards his leg, and asked, “Is it very bad?”

“It veel knit together like ze ice on ze river!” was the reply. “An’ you veel not be lame mans. No! But two months veel pass before you take ze trail again.”

“Two months. The ice will be breaking up by then.”

“Oui! dat so! But what matter? Time it ees long in ze North, an’ we can talk together. Where did the trail lead for you, m’sieu?”

“I was making for North Star Lodge in the first instance. There, I hoped to get dogs to take me to the police post.”

Chief Louis did not speak for a little time. He lit an Indian pipe made of some soft stone with a hollowed twig for stem, pulled thoughtfully at it a few times, blowing out clouds of acrid smoke, then he said slowly, “You were going to North Star? You ever know Missi Gargrave’s father?”

“No!” answered the policeman. “He was dead before I came so far North. I understand that he was caught in the ice in the Yukon – and lost. The bottom dropped out of the trail or something.”

“Him die, oui,” was the brief reply.

Something in the other’s tone caught the policeman’s attention. He looked at him quickly. The half-breed’s face was like that of a wooden image, but there was a glitter in the eyes that betrayed an excitement which the mask-like visage concealed.

“Ah!” he commented. “You know how Rolf Gargrave died!”

“I not say so! But I tink an’ tink, an’ I tink it was not good ze way Gargrave die. Non!”

Bracknell waited, but the half-breed did not continue, and after a little time he said quietly, “Tell me.”

“Not now. It is ze hour of ze evening meal; an’ ze tale will keep. I tell you anoder time.”

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, nodded gravely at the officer and passed out of the tepee, leaving Bracknell the prey of a great curiosity. What on earth was the tale which the half-breed had to tell about Rolf Gargrave’s death? He recalled the little that he had heard about the disappearance of the Northland millionaire and could remember nothing which indicated that his death had been due to anything but an accident. As he remembered the story the river-ice on which Mr. Gargrave and his party of four Indians had been travelling had suddenly turned rotten, in Northland phrase, “the bottom had dropped out of the trail,” and the whole party had been drowned, with a single exception. The exception was one of the Indians who had managed to crawl out, and later in the day reached an Indian lodge there, after telling the story of the disaster, to die of cold and exhaustion. Mr. Gargrave’s death had been a tragedy, but such tragedies were not uncommon in the North; and the police, hearing of the event months afterward, had seen no reason for investigation. Every spring brought similar stories with it; and would, so long as men persisted in keeping to the ice-trails when once the spring thaw had set in.

But Chief Louis’s vague hints had perplexed Roger Bracknell, and awakened formless suspicions in his mind. Suppose that the death of Joy’s father had not been an accident, suppose —

He broke off his conjectures. It was no use indulging in idle speculations when a short time would probably dispose of any need for them. He gave his mind to the consideration of his own position. As he recognized, his escape from death had been a very narrow one, and though he would have to remain where he was, probably for many weeks, he counted himself fortunate. Chief Louis held the Mounted Police in esteem, and would look after him well, and though the delay would probably mean that his Cousin Dick would escape, he could not find it in his heart to regret that over much. The Indian, Joe, was another matter. He was convinced that by poisoning his dog-food the Indian had deliberately planned his death, and as he thought of the means employed, a hot wrath burned within him. It was so cruel, so treacherous, and he vowed to himself that one day he would make the Indian pay for it.

His thoughts wandered further to Joy Gargrave! She would be in England or well on her way there, and wondering how his quest had sped. He was now in a position to fulfil his promise to her, but he doubted whether such news as he had to send her would be any comfort to her, for the news that Dick Bracknell was alive, and making for the fastnesses of the Northern wilderness, could hardly be good news for her, who had been so bitterly deceived.

It was the next day when Chief Louis unfolded the mystery of Rolf Gargrave’s death. Seating himself by the corporal’s side, he puffed slowly at his pipe for some time, and the officer watched him, wondering what was in his mind and when he would speak.

Suddenly the half-breed leaned forward and said abruptly —

“Ze bottom nevaire drop out of ze trail under Rolf Gargrave!”

“No?” The corporal’s voice was eager and his manner alert.

“It was blown out!”

“Blown out! What on earth do you mean, Louis?”

“Listen and I veel the tale unfold. Tree winters back, no four! dere come to my tepee a white man who was not used to ze ways of ze North. With him vas another mans who had ze coughing-sickness, and who need the squaws to nurse him. He die vaire shortly – six days after he come, an’ we give him tree-burial; and ze next day, ze other white mans he come to me. He want two men to go on trail with him to ze North, an’ he pay with blankets, two rifles of ze best, mooch cartridges, and many sticks of tabac. He vaire anxious, and I ask him what for he go North before ze spring it have arrive. And he say he go to find a mans. What mans? I ask, and he say Rolf Gargrave, whom he would talk with on business of importance. Den I understand, I tink, Gargrave he is a man of many affairs, an’ this man who know not ze ways of ze North hav’ come so far to talk of gold and ze like, and I agree, and send two men of ze tribe with him to find Gargrave of North Star.

“Dey be good men, who know ze ways of ze trail as none other, but dey are gone a vaire long time, an’ ze wild geeze hav’ gone to their breeding grounds in ze far North, an’ ze river it is free from ice, when dey return. I question dem, and it is a strange tale dey tell. For many days dey travel with ze stranger mans whose name I know not, an’ dey are on the trail of Gargrave all ze time. Dey hear word of him, now here, now dere, and it is a long trail dey follow, but at ze last dey come up with him. Dey hav’ word dat he is but one camp ahead of dem, an’ dey push the dogs, an’ soon dey pass Gargrave’s camp.”

“Pass it?” cried the corporal in astonishment.

“Oui! Dey pass a camp which is Gargrave’s an’ with ze darkness falling, dey push on five, six mile, an’ dere pitch camp, an’ ze stranger mans say he wait for Gargrave dere. It begins to snow, an’ dere is wind, an’ dey crouch by ze fire, an’ sleep, one hour, two hours, tree – I know not. Den Paslik an’ Sibou dey wake suddenly, an’ dere is the roll of thunder in their ears. Dey listen in wonder and again dey hear it, a crash like dat among ze hills when the sun scorches ze grass an’ ze earth it shake an’ tremble.

“Dey look about. Ze white-man’s sleeping bag it is empty, and he is not dere. Dey wait a long time. Ze thunder sound no more, but ze snow still fall, an’ presently, ze stranger mans he return. He hav’ on ze snowshoes an’ he hav’ been on a journey. He tell Paslik an’ Sibou dat he not sleep, dat he hav’ been for little walk to help him. But he is vaire tired, an’ dere is a strange look on his face, and Paslik he whisper to Sibou dat the stranger man hav’ been a long journey… Den ze snow still falling, dey all sleep till dawn…

“All next day, in ze camp dere, dey wait for ze coming of Gargrave, but he come not, and Paslik he see dat after a time ze mans look not towards ze river-trail, an’ dat dare is a pleased look on his face, a look as of one who has his desire given unto him. Ze next morning, they strike camp, an’ ze stranger mans he say dey go back and look for Gargrave. To Paslik an’ Sibou, ze way of the white man is foolishness, but dey go back, an’ tree miles down ze trail dey find the ice hav’ been broken in. It hav’ frozen over again, but ze snow about have melt an’ frozen in with ze ice, an’ it is rotten. Also dere are great chunks of ice thrown far out over ze snow, which is a strange thing… Dey cross the broken trail with care, an’ at the far side, dey come on ze tracks of two sleds that hav’ moved in ze direction of ze rotten ice.

“Ze stranger mans he look at dese an’ den he looks back at ze broken trail, an’ den he whistle cheerfully all to himself. Paslik he look, an’ he read ze signs, an’ he whisper dat ze sleds hav’ gone in, ze sleds an’ ze mans, an’ den dey go forward till dey reach ze camp of Gargrave dat dey pass on ze way. He is not dere, ze camp is remove, an’ ze ashes of ze fire are cold. Ze white mans he look, an’ he laugh, but it was ze laugh of a man who is not disappointed, you understand.

“‘We hav’ missed him,’ he say. ‘We return to Dawson.’

“So Paslik an’ Sibou, dey go to Dawson with him, an’ dere dey hear that Gargrave is lost, because of ze bottom dropping from ze trail an’ casting him in ze river. One mans he have crawled out, he tell ze tale an’ die. An’ Paslik an’ Sibou say nothing, an’ ze stranger mans he give them his dogs an’ sled an’ stores and leave Dawson, and presently when ze river is open dey come back, and whisper to me the tale of their wanderings, and I say ze trail it not fall in, but it is blown out.”

The half-breed broke off, and lighting his pipe, puffed at it stolidly, staring into the fire. For a full half-minute the corporal did not speak. The implications of the other’s story were very clear to him, but they seemed incredible.

“But what makes you so sure?” he asked at last.

Chief Louis rose from his seat and without speaking passed from the tepee. After a few minutes he returned bringing with him a wooden box with a hinged lid. He opened it, and held it towards the corporal, who looked in curiously. Inside half-wrapped in cotton wool were four cakes of some reddish brown material, and when the corporal’s eyes fell on them, he gave vent to a sudden exclamation.

“Ah!”

“You know what dat is? You hav’ before it seen?”

“Yes!” answered Bracknell quickly. “It is dynamite. How did you come by it?”

“Ze stranger mans he leaves it in ze stores dat he give Paslik an’ Sibou. He forget it, or he tink dey get meddling with it an’ blow themselves to Hell. But dey bring it back, and I know it, and I keep it; and remembering ze winter thunder which Paslik an’ Sibou dey hear in their sleep, I say ze trail it was blown up, an’ not fall in, behold, Paslik an’ Sibou wi’ ze stranger mans go all ze way to Dawson, an’ ze trail it is good.”

“Upon my word, Louis, I believe you are right.”

“Dere is no question. It is so sure as ze rising of ze sun!”

A dark thought shot in the corporal’s mind. Four winters ago this had happened, and in that year Dick Bracknell, who had trapped Joy Gargrave into marriage, had fled from England. Rolf Gargrave’s death might be conceived to serve the interests of his son-in-law, and Rolf Gargrave had been murdered.

“Louis,” he asked abruptly, “what sort of a man was he whom Paslik and Sibou served?”

“He was tall, with full beard and dark eyes. His voice was of ze English an’ not of ze American, for he talked not through the nose.”

The description was not very illuminating, and the policeman almost groaned.

“His hair? did you mark the colour?”

“It was like ze bear – what you call brown, ze brown of ze wood-nuts in autumn!”

Brown! Dick Bracknell’s was brown, but then so was the hair of half the Anglo-Saxon race!

As his mind clutched at this fact seeking escape from the awful thought which was taking possession of it, he frowned.

“You know ze mans?” asked the half-breed.

“No!” he cried violently. “No!”

“All ze same,” said Chief Louis stolidly, “that mans he blow up ze trail.”

And from that conclusion, at any rate, Roger Bracknell could find no escape.

CHAPTER XIII
TWO PROPOSALS

THREE days after her visit to the theatre with Sir Joseph Rayner, Joy Gargrave went north to Westmorland, accompanied by Miss La Farge. She was staying with old friends a few miles from the home of Sir James Bracknell at Harrow Fell, and her hostess, remembering Dick Bracknell’s devotion to her, gossiped freely.

“You remember Sir James’ eldest son, the one whom we used to say ran on your heels, Joy?”

“Yes,” answered Joy, in a voice that was not very encouraging.

“He went to the dogs – all the way. There was a bad scandal, and though it was hushed up for Sir James’ sake, Dick Bracknell had to run the country. No one knows where he is now or whether he is alive or dead, but it is thought the latter; anyway, we are all beginning to look on Geoffrey as the heir of Harrow Fell. He is coming over here at the week-end for the final grouse-shoot of the season, and Adrian Rayner is coming also. Your uncle fished for an invitation for him, and my husband could not very well refuse, you know. I fancy,” she added with a knowing little laugh, “it isn’t merely grouse he is after.”

Joy gave no sign of understanding, but when the week-end arrived, bringing with it Adrian Rayner, she was left in no uncertainty as to her cousin’s intentions. He haunted her steps. He was always at hand with assistance which she did not want; and when Geoffrey Bracknell also arrived, there was something like open rivalry between them. Her friend and hostess laughed.

“You will have a brace of proposals before the shoot is over, Joy.”

“Not if I can help it,” answered Joy quickly.

“You will not be able to help it,” was the reply. “They are both determined young men and their minds are made up.”

“So is mine,” replied Joy.

Yet it was as her hostess said. On the day of the shoot, Geoffrey Bracknell walked with her across the moor towards the “butts” built of turf and behind which they were to wait for the driven birds. They reached her own shelter first, and as she dropped to an improvised seat, Geoffrey Bracknell halted and looked down at her.

“Miss Gargrave, there is – er – something that I want to say, and to – a – ask you.”

She looked up and met his honest eyes, eyes that to her mind recalled not his brother, her husband, but the eyes of his cousin Corporal Bracknell of the Mounted Police. What she read there brought a quick flush to her face, and she hastily put up a protesting hand.

“Please, Mr. Bracknell, don’t! Don’t spoil our friendship!”

“Ah!” said the young man, his face paling a little, “you understand what I want. Is it really quite impossible?”

“Yes,” she answered with directness, “it is quite impossible.”

Geoffrey Bracknell whistled softly to himself. He had suffered a blow, but he strove to behave like a gentleman. “Then I am sorry to have troubled you, Miss Gargrave. Of course I knew that I was not – er – worthy – ”

“Oh, it is not that,” she intervened in a distressed voice. “It is – something else, it has nothing to do with you at all!”

“But it knocks me out!” he said trying to smile. “Well, it is the fortune of war. I suppose that I shall have to persuade the governor to let me go on a big game trip, now. That is, the proper thing to do under the circumstances, isn’t it?”

Again she met his eyes, he was still smiling, but she could see the effort it required. She held out a hand impulsively.

“Geoffrey,” she said, “don’t let this spoil your life, or our friendship. I cannot now explain what makes my refusal imperative. Some day I may be able to, and when I can I shall tell you, if you are still my friend.”

“Then you’ll have to tell me,” he said frankly, “for I shall always be that. Couldn’t be anything else, you know… But there’s the head-keeper signalling; I must move on to my own butt. Good hunting!”

He laughed with forced lightness and walked away. Joy watched him go with pain at her heart. How like his cousin he was, and how unlike his brother! She felt very sorry for the boy, and the incident had disturbed her so much that she shot very badly. Again and again as the birds came driving towards her she either didn’t fire or fired too late, but from the butt where Geoffrey Bracknell waited, the shots came at regular intervals, and she saw the birds drop every time. Then a covey of grouse came driving with the wind straight towards her neighbour’s shelter. She waited. There was a sharp report, and a sudden cry, and the birds drove on. She looked towards the shelter. It was almost in a line with her own, and she could see something lying on the ground behind it. Another flock of birds drove down the wind, but there was no shot from Geoffrey Bracknell’s gun. A sudden fear assailed her. Leaving her own gun resting against the turf wall, she ran towards the next butt. Before she reached it, she knew that something dreadful had happened, for she could see that the young man was lying on his back in the heather. She reached the shelter and a cry broke from her.

White faced and still, with a ghastly wound in his right temple, Geoffrey Bracknell lay there, quite dead. As she looked at him, she had no doubt whatever about the matter, and a great agony surged up in her heart.

Had he – ? Her eyes fell on the gun close by, and before the thought which had assailed her was completed she knew that it was groundless. The lock of the gun was blown out, and the base of both barrels was fractured. It had been an accident.

“Thank God,” she whispered to herself, delivered from the fear which had assailed her, “it was not – ”

She dropped on her knees by his side and took his hand. It was already cold, as she raised it to her lips.

“Poor boy! Poor boy!”

She was in tears as she rose from her knees, and began to walk towards the next butt. The news spread quickly and the shoot was stopped, and the body was taken first to the village, and later in the day to Harrow Fell. And that night Joy’s hostess, discussing the tragedy, set a problem before her, which kept her awake far into the night.

“Poor Sir James,” she said. “He is left without a child, for as I told you no one knows anything at all about Dick Bracknell, and it doesn’t matter very much whether he is alive or dead, to any one but his cousin Roger, for he can never return to England.”

“To his cousin Roger,” echoed Joy, visioning the corporal, “why should it matter to him?”

“Because if Dick is out of the way, Harrow Fell will pass to him on Sir James’ death. The estates are entailed, you know.”

Instantly Joy saw the difficulties of the situation. Dick Bracknell might be dead, or he might be very much alive. In the former case, the way was quite clear for his cousin; but in the latter, there were possibilities that filled her with dread. The corporal had left North Star in an endeavour to solve the mystery of the disappearance of his cousin’s body. If Dick Bracknell were yet alive and he overtook him, he would probably try to effect his arrest, and if Dick resisted there might be trouble, and possibly Corporal Bracknell might be driven to have recourse to arms. Suppose he shot his cousin, and so, in innocence, cleared his own way to the succession of Harrow Fell? Her face clouded, and an anxious look came into her eyes. She was recalled to herself by her hostess’s voice.

“A penny for your thoughts, Joy.”

Joy prevaricated a little. “I was thinking what a strange coil life is!” she answered.

“In what way?”

“Well, the last person I spoke to, before I left North Star to come to England, was Roger Bracknell!”

“Roger Bracknell!” echoed her hostess in surprise.

“Yes, he is in the Mounted Police, and, in the way of duty, he came to North Star, three days or so before I left.”

“That is an odd coincidence,” was the comment. “What did you think of him, my dear?”

Joy answered with reserve. “He seemed to be very nice – a gentleman, you know.”

Her hostess smiled. “Yes, Roger is that – the right sort, as my husband would say. He, at any rate, will never disgrace the Bracknell clan, for he is at the opposite pole from his cousin Dick. What did he look like?”

“Like a mounter!” answered Joy quickly.

“A mounter! Don’t talk slang, Joy. Interpret, please.”

“Well,” answered Joy smilingly, “a mounter is a member of the Royal North West Mounted Police, who are as fine a body of men as you may find from one end of the Empire to the other.”

“And therefore Roger Bracknell is a fine man, hey?”

“He struck me as being so!” answered Joy composedly. Her friend glanced at her with shrewd eyes. “Hum!” she said. “You are very discreet, my dear Joy. Now you know that the truth is that Roger Bracknell is a man who takes the eye, a handsome man in fact, and why you should be reluctant to own up – ”

“Own up! What do you mean?” interrupted Joy, her face growing suddenly scarlet.

“Nothing,” laughed her friend, “except that Roger Bracknell is a man to whom few women could be as indifferent as you pretend to be. But I must cut this conversation short. There’s Adrian Rayner looking for you, and coming this way. I’ll send him on to you.”

“Please don’t,” cried Joy; but her hostess only laughed, and as she walked towards the young man Joy fled to her room.

Late into the night she considered the possibilities which had presented themselves to her mind at the mention of Roger Bracknell’s possible succession to Harrow Fell, and in the morning she rode to the post office in the neighbouring country town, and there dispatched two cablegrams, one to Roger Bracknell, care of the Police Commissioner at Regina, explaining to him the circumstances, and one to the Commissioner himself asking for the whereabouts of Corporal Bracknell, prepaying a reply. Three days later the reply reached her in London.

“Corporal Bracknell reported as missing. Supposed lost.”

When she received it, she was greatly distressed, and rather hurriedly made up her mind to return at once to North Star. Why she should do so, she did not make clear even to herself; and when Adrian Rayner pressed her for her reason, she was covered with confusion.

“Joy,” he protested, “you must not do anything so foolish. You have fulfilled the terms of your father’s will to the letter, and now your place is here in England. We all want you here! I want you more than any one else on earth. Do you understand?”

She gave him no reply to the question, but he explained further, leaving her no room for doubt. “I love you, Joy. I loved you when you were here in England three years ago. I loved you at North Star. I love you more madly than ever, now. Will you marry me?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Don’t press me, Adrian.”

“But why can’t you?” he asked ruthlessly. “At least you owe me a reason for refusal. I wonder if that reason has anything to do with this foolishness of returning to North Star.”

She was a little startled by the acuteness of his conjecture, and did not immediately reply. He smiled a trifle grimly, and then continued. “If it has, you can dismiss that reason from your mind for good. Dick Bracknell is dead.”

“Dick Bracknell! What – ”

Her voice faltered as she met his gaze. “Yes,” he answered. “Dick Bracknell, alias Koona Dick. He was your husband, wasn’t he? You married him down at Alcombe, didn’t you?”

“How do you know?” she asked quiveringly.

“That is a private matter,” he replied. “Just as your marriage was private; and just as the manner of your husband’s death must be kept private for the good of us all.”

“What … what do you mean, Adrian?” she asked in a trembling voice, her face ghastly with sudden terror.

“I mean that I know who shot Koona Dick,” he answered slowly.

“Oh!” she gasped, her hand over her heart in a wild endeavour to stay its fierce beating. “Oh! what – what – ”

“There is no need for you to be other than frank with me. I saw the whole thing. I saw you get that message. I followed you into the woods. You took a gun with you, and you hid in the trees where you could see your husband arrive. I saw the flame of your shot, and that same second Dick Bracknell fell in the snow. Mark you, I do not blame you. Dick Bracknell was worthless and – ”

“But oh!” sobbed Joy with horror in her face. “You are mistaken. It is not true. I never – ”

“Why try to bluff me, Joy? I say I saw you and if you were not the person who killed Dick Bracknell, why did you make no mention of what had occurred when you returned to the Lodge? That is not the way of innocence.”

Joy did not reply. Her face was buried in her hands and she was sobbing convulsively. Rayner looked at her with shrewd eyes, then after a moment resumed in an altered tone —

“As I have said, Joy, my dear, I do not blame you; I even went out of my way to help you that night.”

“You … you went – ”

“Exactly, I saw that policeman find Dick’s body, and afterwards leave it, and go towards the Lodge. I knew that things might be awkward if the truth came out, so I disposed of the body.”

“You disposed of the body?” She lifted her head suddenly, and through her tears looked at him incredulously.

“Yes,” he answered airily. “It is difficult to prove a crime if there is no evidence of it, so I removed the material evidence, to the utter confusion of any theory that Corporal Bracknell might have formed.”

“But how? What – ”

“I carried it away, and dropped it through an ice-hole in the river. It will never be found until the ice breaks up in the spring, and then it is not at all likely. I took a little risk, I know; but I did it for your sake, believe me, Joy, quite as much as for my own.”

“I do not understand how it affected you,” faltered the girl.

“Perhaps not,” answered Rayner suavely. “But you have heard the reason. I loved you. I wanted to marry you, even at that time I wanted you; for I recognized that you were distraught when you – ”

“Oh please! Please! Do not say it!” she cried.

“Very well,” he answered. “I will not. But you understand the position, and I think you will agree that knowing what I know there are not a great number of men who would wish to marry you.”

“And why should you?” she asked quickly.

“Again because I love you.”

She sat there in silence, staring absently at a vase of chrysanthemums on the table, and seeing them not at all. In her mind she was again living through the horror of that night at North Star, searching for something that would give the lie to Adrian Rayner’s statement. And suddenly she remembered something. That sled which had halted in the wood. Who had been with it? Her gaze moved quickly from the vase to her cousin’s face, and on it she surprised a cynical, calculating look that stirred deep distrust in her.