elow the bateau,
screened between by a finger of hardwood, so that except when they
broke into a chorus of laughter or strengthened their throats with
snatches of song, there was no sound of their voices. But Bateese was
in the stern, and Nepapinas was forever flitting in and out among the
shadows on the shore, like a shadow himself, and Andre, the Broken Man,
hovered near as night came on. At last he sat down in the edge of the
white sand of the beach, and there he remained, a silent and lonely
figure, as the twilight deepened. Over the world hovered a sleepy
quiet. Out of the forest came the droning of the wood-crickets, the
last twitterings of the day birds, and the beginning of night sounds. A
great shadow floated out over the river close to the bateau, the first
of the questing, blood-seeking owls adventuring out like pirates from
their hiding-places of the day. One after another, as the darkness
thickened, the different tribes of the people of the night answered the
summons of the first stars. A mile down the river a loon gave its harsh
love-cry; far out of the west came the faint trail-song of a wolf; in
the river the night-feeding trout splashed like the tails of beaver;
over the roof of the wilderness came the coughing, moaning challenge of
a bull moose that yearned for battle. And over these same forest tops
rose the moon, the stars grew thicker and brighter, and through the
finger of hardwood glowed the fire of St. Pierre Boulain's men--while
close beside him, silent in these hours of silence, David felt growing
nearer and still nearer to him the presence of St. Pierre's wife.

On the strip of sand Andre, the Broken Man, rose and stood like the
stub of a misshapen tree. And then slowly he moved on and was swallowed
up in the mellow glow of the night.

"It is at night that he seeks," said St. Pierre's wife, for it was as
if David had spoken the thought that was in his mind.

David, for a moment, was silent. And then he said, "You asked me to
tell you about Black Roger Audemard. I will, if you care to have me. Do
you?"

He saw the nodding of her head, though the moon and star-mist veiled
her face.

"Yes. What do the Police say about Roger Audemard?"

He told her. And not once in the telling of the story did she speak or
move. It was a terrible story at best, he thought, but he did not
weaken it by smoothing over the details. This was his opportunity. He
wanted her to know why he must possess the body of