ld. She longs to protect the suffering,
because to protect is in her so far as God is.... Well, this woman
cares that way...." She held out her hand to say good-bye. Her look was
simple, direct, and kind. Their parting words were few and unremarkable.

Roscoe watched Justine Caron as she passed out into the shade of the
woods, and he said to himself: "Gratitude like that is a wonderful
thing." He should have said something else, but he did not know, and she
did not wish him to know: and he never knew.

CHAPTER XVI. A DUEL IN ARCADY

The more I thought of Mrs. Falchion's attitude towards Roscoe, the more
I was puzzled. But I had at last reduced the position to this: Years
ago Roscoe had cared for her and she had not cared for him. Angered
or indignant at her treatment of him, Roscoe's affections declined
unworthily elsewhere. Then came a catastrophe of some kind, in which
Alo (whoever she was) suffered. The secret of this catastrophe Mrs.
Falchion, as I believe, held. There was a parting, a lapse of years, and
then the meeting on the 'Fulvia': with it, partial restoration of Mrs.
Falchion's influence, then its decline, and then a complete change of
position. It was now Mrs. Falchion that cared, and Roscoe that shunned.
It perplexed me that there seemed to be behind Mrs. Falchion's present
regard for Roscoe some weird expression of vengeance, as though somehow
she had been wronged, and it was her duty to punish. In no other way was
the position definable. That Roscoe would never marry her was certain to
my mind. That he could not marry her now was also certain--to me; I had
the means to prevent it. That she wished to marry him I was not
sure, though she undoubtedly cared for him. Remained, therefore, the
supposition that if he cared for her she would do him no harm, as to his
position. But if he married Ruth, disaster would come--Roscoe himself
acknowledged that she held the key of his fortunes.

Upon an impulse, and as a last resort, I had taken action whereby
in some critical moment I might be able to wield a power over Mrs.
Falchion. I was playing a blind game, but it was the only card I held.
I had heard from the lawyer in Montreal that Madras, under another name,
had gone to the prairie country to enter the mounted police. I had then
telegraphed to Winnipeg, but had got no answer.

I had seen her many times, but we had never, except very remotely,
touched upon the matter which was uppermost in both our mind