ow him through and through. He's done everything that a man can
do and not be hanged. A thief, a drunkard, and a brute--and he killed a
man out here," he added, hoarsely. "I found it out myself--myself. It was
murder."

Suddenly, as he looked at her, an idea seemed to flash into his mind. He
came very near and looked at her closely. Then he reached over and almost
touched the scar on her forehead.

"Did he do that, Jo?"

For an instant she was silent and looked down at the floor. Presently she
raised her eyes, her face suffused. Once or twice she tried to speak, but
failed. At last she gained courage, and said:

"After Cynthy's death I kept house for him for a year, taking care of
little Bobby. I loved Bobby so--he has Cynthy's eyes. One day Dorland--oh,
Nett, of course I oughtn't to have stayed there--I know it now; but I was
only sixteen, and what did I understand! And my mother was dead. One
day--oh, please, Nett, you can guess. He said something to me. I made him
leave the house. Before I could make plans what to do, he came back mad
with drink. I went for Bobby, to get out of the house, but he caught hold
of me. I struck him in the face, and he threw me against the edge of the
open door. It made the scar."

Foyle's face was white. "Why did you never write and tell me that, Jo? You
know that I--" He stopped suddenly.

"You had gone out of our lives down there. I didn't know where you were
for a long time; and then--then it was all right about Bobby and me,
except that Bobby didn't get the money that was his. But now--"

Foyle's voice was hoarse and low. "He made that scar, and he--and you only
sixteen--Oh, my God!"

Suddenly his face reddened, and he choked with shame and anger. "And he's
my brother!" was all that he could say.

"Do you see him up here ever?" she asked, pityingly.

"I never saw him till a week ago." A moment, then he added, "The letter
wasn't to be sent here in his own name, was it?"

She nodded. "Yes, in his own name, Dorland W. Foyle. Didn't he go by that
name when you saw him?"

There was an oppressive silence, in which she saw that something moved him
strangely, and then he answered, "No, he was going by the name of
Halbeck--Hiram Halbeck."

The girl gasped. Then the whole thing burst upon her. "Hiram Halbeck!
Hiram Halbeck, the thief--I read it all in the papers--the thief that you
caught, and that got away. And you've left the Mounted Police because of
it--oh, Nett!" Her eyes w