its, or he never would have done what
he had for Paulette. He muttered something about all the decent men
who'd met their death because he wouldn't listen to Paulette when she
tried to tell him the truth about Macartney, damned him up and down, and
turned to Paulette with a sweet sort of roughness:

"You look done up, my girl! Here, get down by the fire and eat what our
chef's got ready!" For the crippled boy had gone on with his cooking,
regardless of the talk round him, and his rabbit was done.

But Paulette never looked at the food Dudley held out to her. "You're
not angry, Dudley?" she asked very low. "I mean--for what I said to
Nicky as we came in?"

"I was," but Dudley grinned in the half dark. "It was true enough, only
nobody likes to hear their own obituary. But I knew about Stretton long
ago, if you hadn't the sense to! You take him, my child, and my
blessing. God knows I never asked you to marry an old soak like me!"

He shoved Paulette's hand into mine and stared at the two of us for a
second. Then--"By gad," he added, in a different voice, "I hope
Macartney's got drowned, or he may walk in on the lot of us!"

"How?" I demanded scornfully. "He couldn't do thirty-two miles in the
time Paulette and I did fifteen, even if he knew where to do it to!"

"He doesn't have to, my young son," Dudley stood musing on it. "Baker
and I didn't do any twenty, coming here; and it was Macartney's own path
we came by. That doesn't go round by any Halfway! If he takes a fancy to
come here by it, and strikes your tracks as you two came into Skunk's
Misery, the rest wouldn't take him long! I believe--hang on a minute,
while I speak to Baker!" He wheeled suddenly and disappeared into the
dark of the cave where Baker stood aloof.

"You needn't worry about Macartney," I said to Paulette. "We didn't
leave any tracks, once we got into broken snow!"

I turned at a rustle behind me and looked straight into the muzzle of
Macartney's revolver and into Macartney's eyes!

CHAPTER XX

THE END

The boy at the fire let out a yelp and dropped flat. Dudley and Baker,
invisible somewhere, neither spoke nor stirred. And I stood like a fool,
as near the death of Nicholas Dane Stretton as ever I wish to get.

But Macartney only stood there, looking so much as usual that I guessed
he must have rested outside the mouth of our burrow before he wormed
down to tackle me.

"You wouldn't have left any tracks," he said, picking up what