se, were fixed compellingly on
the man. The missionary sat, and, having recovered slightly, fumbled
with a knife and fork. A napkin was still beneath his greasy chin. He
did not take it away.

Pierre then spoke slowly: "Yes, it is a scandal concerning a sinner--and
a Pagan.... Will you permit me to light a cigarette? Thank you.... You
have said many harsh things about me: well, as you see, I am amiable. I
lived at Fort Anne before you came. They call me Pretty Pierre. Why is
my cheek so? Because I drink no wine; I eat not much. Pardon, pork like
that on your plate--no! no! I do not take green tea as there in your
cup; I do not love women, one or many. Again, pardon, I say."

The other drew his brows together with an attempt at pious frowning and
indignation; but there was a cold, sneering smile now turned upon him,
and it changed the frown to anxiety, and made his lips twitch, and the
food he had eaten grow heavy within him.

"I come to the scandal slowly. The woman? She was a young girl
travelling from the far East, to search for a man who had--spoiled
her. She was found by me and another. Ah, you start so!... Will you not
listen?... Well, she died to-night."

Here the missionary gasped, and caught with both hands at the table.

"But before she died she gave two things into my hands: a packet of
letters--a man is a fool to write such letters--and a small bottle of
poison--laudanum, old-fashioned but sure. The letters were from the
man at Fort Anne--the man, you hear! The other was for her death, if he
would not take her to his arms again. Women are mad when they love. And
so she came to Fort Anne, but not in time. The scandal is great, because
the man is holy--sit down!"

The half-breed said the last two words sharply, but not loudly. They
both sat down slowly again, looking each other in the eyes. Then Pierre
drew from his pocket a small bottle and a packet of letters, and held
them before him. "I have this to say: there are citizens of Fort Anne
who stand for justice more than law; who have no love for the ways of
St. Anthony. There is a Pagan, too, an outlaw, who knows when it is time
to give blow for blow with the holy man. Well, we understand each other,
'hein?'"

The elusive, sinister look in the missionary's face was etched in strong
lines now. A dogged sullenness hung about his lips. He noticed that
one hand only of Pretty Pierre was occupied with the relics of the dead
girl; the other was free to act s