t the story is not one I like to tell. To be
brief, I was under the impression that I had killed a man, and that a
charge of murder rested against me. The affair happened in Montreal in
February of 1788, a few months after I landed in Canada. I was in a
gambling den with a companion, and another man at our table, with whom I
was playing cards, deliberately cheated. When I accused him of it he
reached for his pistol, and to save my life I fired first. I saw him
fall, shot in the chest. Then some one put out the light, and in the
confusion that followed I managed to escape. Before morning I was a
fugitive from Montreal, heading for the wilderness."

The captain paused a moment, his head bowed in an attitude of sorrow.

"That, gentlemen, is the reason why I hid my identity all these
years--during more recent months," he continued. "I preferred to lose
title and riches rather than bring shame and dishonor on one of
England's proudest names--not to speak of the danger of arrest and
conviction."

"Who was the man you shot?" the factor demanded eagerly. "His
name--quick!"

"He was a Frenchman--Henri Salvat."

"Ah, I thought so!" cried Macdonald. "He did not die--he recovered from
the wound. And as he did not know your name, you were not suspected of
the deed, I was in Montreal shortly afterward, and heard of the affair."

"And I learned the truth but a few weeks ago--when I was coming down
country," Captain Rudstone replied huskily. "I met an old trapper who
had been in Montreal at the time, and by adroit questioning I drew from
him what you have just told me. I need not say what a relief it was. I
determined at once to find Mr. Burley and reveal all. Does the
explanation satisfy you?"

"You were certainly justified in keeping silence," Macdonald answered.
"The reason was sound. But there is one little point I would like to
have cleared; Why, when you believed yourself a fugitive from justice,
did you use your real name at Fort Garry?"

"Simply because there was no alternative," said the captain. "The first
person I met when I entered Fort Garry in April of 1788 was a man who
had known me as Osmund Maiden in Quebec a few months before; so I had to
leave the trunk in that name. At the time, of course, no word of the
affair at Montreal had reached the fort--I came here by rapid marches.
But fearing that the clew might be followed up, I abandoned my intention
of going north, and went south instead, ultimately crossing th