rown bewildered, but softened.
Christine--if she had not seen a little too much, if she had not known
that lovely golden hair hanging in rich plaits about the woman's
shoulders covered the crisped head of a white negress, if she had not
overheard impassioned words at midnight, if she had not loved Roddy so
well--might have been beguiled. But there was one person upon whom the
artist's wiles were wasted.

"I'm afraid it can't be done, Mrs. Saxby," said Saltire gravely. "The
testimony of a dying man is sacred--and Saxby's mind was perfectly
clear."

"How could it have been? And do not call me 'Mrs. Saxby,' please."
She still spoke patiently, but a smouldering fire began to kindle in
her eyes.

"You see," he continued, exhibiting the packet of letters to which he
now added the testimony, "I have here the certificate of your marriage
to Saxby six years ago in the West Indies--and also proof of the
possession by you of a large amount of antimony. You may, of course,
be able to explain away these things, as well as Saxby's testimony, but
you will understand that I cannot oblige you by handing them over." A
silence fell, in which only her rapid breathing could be heard. "There
is one thing, however, you can do, that will perhaps help a little.
Tell us where Roddy is--if you know."

The smouldering fires leaped to flame. She glared at him like a
tigress.

"Oh, you, and your Roddys!" she cried savagely. "If I knew where he
was, I would kill him! I would kill any one I could who stood in my
way--do you understand? That is how we are made in my land. Oh, that
I ever left it, to come to this vile and barren desert!"

She gave one swift, terrible look at the dead man and swept from the
house. That was the last time any one of them ever saw her.

When, a little later, Saltire, McNeil, and Christine came out of the
dead man's house and left him to his long silence, the black wings of
night were lifted, the storm was past, and a rose-red dawn veiled in
silver bedecked the sky. The hills were tender with pearl and azure.
The earth smelled sweet and freshly washed. A flock of wild duck rose
from the dam and went streaking across the horizon like in a Japanese
etching. All the land was full of dew and dreams. It was almost
impossible to despair in such an hour. Christine felt the wings of
hope beating in her breast, and an unaccountable trust in the goodness
of God filled her.

"Joy cometh in the morning," she