oreover, that he had spoken the truth. Still,
the fellow, although in some respects to be pitied, was obviously a
dangerous rascal, embittered and robbed of all scruples by injustice.
There was something malignant in his face that testified against him;
but, worse than all, he had come there resolved to extort money as the
price of his connivance in a wrong.

"Well?" Clarke said, breaking the pause.

"So far as I can judge, your ultimate object's creditable; but I can't
say as much for the means you are ready to employ in raising the money.
If you go on with the scheme, it must be without any help of mine."

Clarke's face grew hard, and there was something forbidding in the way
he knitted his brows.

"Have you gaged the consequences of your refusal?"

"It's more to the purpose that I've tried to estimate the importance of
your version of what happened during the night attack. It has one
fatal weakness which you seem to have overlooked."

"Ah!" said Clarke, with ironical calm. "You will no doubt mention it?"

"You suggest Blake's innocence. You cannot prove it in the face of his
own denial."

To Challoner's surprise, Clarke smiled.

"So you have seen that! The trouble is that your nephew may never have
an opportunity for denying it. He left for the North very badly
equipped, and he has not come back yet. The country he meant to cross
is rugged and covered deep with snow all winter. Food is hard to get,
and the temperature varies from forty to fifty degrees below." Then he
rose with an undisturbed air. "Well, as it seems we can't come to
terms, I needn't waste my time, and it's a long walk to the station. I
must try some other market. While I think you have made a grave
mistake, that is your affair."

When Clarke had gone, Challoner left the house in a restless mood and
paced slowly up and down among his shrubbery. He wished to be alone in
the open air. Bright sunshine fell upon him, the massed evergreens cut
off the wind, and in a sheltered border spear-like green points were
pushing through the soil in promise of the spring. Challoner knew them
all, the veined crocus blades, the tight-closed heads of the hyacinths,
and the twin shoots of the daffodils, but, fond as he was of his
garden, he gave them scanty attention.

Clarke's revelation had been a shock. With his sense of duty and
family pride, the Colonel had, when the news of the frontier disaster
first reached him, found it almost imposs