Nepapinas straighten again with fingers, so-so." He shrugged his thin
shoulders with a cackling laugh of pride as he worked his claw-like
fingers to show how the operation had been done.

David shook hands with him in silence; then Nepapinas put on the fresh
bandage, and after that went out, chuckling again in his weird way, as
though he had played a great joke on the white man whom his wizardry
had snatched out of the jaws of death.

For some time there had been a subdued activity outside. The singing of
the boatmen had ceased, a low voice was giving commands, and looking
through the window, David saw that the bateau was slowly swinging away
from the shore. He turned from the window to the table and lighted the
cigar St. Pierre's wife had given him.

In spite of the mental struggle he had made during the presence of
Nepapinas, he had failed to get a grip on himself. For a time he had
ceased to be David Carrigan, the man-hunter. A few days ago his blood
had run to that almost savage thrill of the great game of one against
one, the game in which Law sat on one side of the board and Lawlessness
on the other, with the cards between. It was the great gamble. The
cards meant life or death; there was never a checkmate--one or the
other had to lose. Had some one told him then that soon he would meet
the broken and twisted hulk of a man who had known Black Roger
Audemard, every nerve in him would have thrilled in anticipation of
that hour. He realized this as he paced back and forth over the thick
rugs of the bateau floor. And he knew, even as he struggled to bring
them back, that the old thrill and the old desire were gone. It was
impossible to lie to himself. St. Pierre, in this moment, was of more
importance to him than Roger Audemard. And St. Pierre's wife,
Marie-Anne--

His eyes fell on the crumpled handkerchief on the piano keys. Again he
was crushing it in the palm of his hand, and again the flood of
humiliation and shame swept over him. He dropped the handkerchief, and
the great law of his own life seemed to rise up in his face and taunt
him. He was clean. That had been his greatest pride. He hated the man
who was unclean. It was his instinct to kill the man who desecrated
another man's home. And here, in the sacredness of St. Pierre's
paradise, he found himself at last face to face with that greatest
fight of all the ages.

He faced the door. He threw back his shoulders until they snapped, and
he laughed, as if a