e bed, decently, after we had done what we could for him. And I
was ashamed to have even wondered if he had been the man Paulette had
shot at on the La Chance road; for there was not a mark on him, and a
fool could have told he had just been drowned in Lac Tremblant. There
was nothing in his pockets to tell how he had got there: only a single
two-dollar bill and a damp pack of cards in a wet leather case.
Thompson's solitaire cards! Somehow the things gave me a lump in my
throat; I wished I had talked more to Thompson in the long evenings.
The letter in my pocket from him was Dudley's, and I did not mention it
to Billy. I said I would try to find out where the dead man had come
from, and anything else I could, before he buried him. And with that I
left old Thompson lying on Billy's bed with his face covered, and rode
home to La Chance.

When I got in, Dudley and Macartney were in the living room, talking.
Any other time I might have wondered why Dudley looked so jumpy and
bad-tempered, but all I was thinking of then was my ugly news. But
before I could tell it, Dudley flew at me. "Where the devil have you
been all day? And what's happened to my gold?"

I don't know why, but I had a furious, cold qualm that either Dudley or
Macartney had _found out_,--I don't mean about Collins so much as about
Paulette having been mixed up with him. Till I knew I was damned if I'd
mention him.

"I don't understand," I said shortly. "The gold's in Caraquet. But the
reason I didn't get home this morning is that Thompson's back!"

"What?" Macartney never spoke loud, yet it cracked out.

I nodded. "I mean he's dead, poor chap! They found his body in Lac
Tremblant this morning." And suddenly I knew I was staring at
Macartney. His capable face was always pale, but in one second it had
gone ghastly. It came over me that he had known old Thompson all his
life, and I blurted involuntarily, "I'm sorry, Macartney!"

But he took no notice.

"They found Thompson's body," he said heavily, as a man does when he is
sick with shock. "Who found it? Why,--he wasn't _here_! What in hell do
you mean?"

I told him. Dudley sat and goggled at the two of us, but Macartney
stared at the floor, his face still ghastly. "I beg your pardon,
Stretton," he muttered as if he were dizzy. "Only Thompson was about the
oldest friend I had. I thought----" But he checked himself and exclaimed
with a sudden sharp doubt, "It can't be old Thompson, Stretton; you must