rs since he had seen any of it.
And Riley's name was the symbol of righteousness and squareness
throughout his whole vast parish, and beyond. The date was the
spring that he and Maria had separated for the last time. But
he was sure that Riley never wrote the certificate as far back
as that.

"If I only had an ink-and-writing expert here!" he groaned to
himself. "But that writing is Riley's all right," he admitted aloud.

Maria began to rock herself again, and to mutter. The commissioner
changed his attack.

"Who's this man, Maria?" he suddenly asked, pointing to Charley
Seguis.

"Your legitimate son and rightful heir," snapped the squaw, and
she went on rocking, while McTavish wrestled with a deadly impulse
to strangle her.

"When was he born?"

"In November, 1873, seven months after you sent me away." McTavish
did not question this. Acting on Donald's advice, he had observed
the half-breed closely, and had detected unmistakable signs of
McTavish blood. Furthermore, the man looked his age.

The commissioner turned to Seguis, and questioned him in regard to
certain events he would remember, had he been alive at the time
Maria claimed.

He answered correctly in all regards, and with a naturalness that
showed he had not been coached. The commissioner was satisfied
that here was his first-born, and the pang that went through his
heart was like a red-hot arrow. But he turned his mind to the
necessities of the occasion, not yielding to its griefs.

"Maria," he said despairingly, "you know we were never married.
You know you came to me willingly and gladly, when I offered you
the only life I would permit myself to offer an Indian. You came
as my companion until such time as we should see fit to separate;
in fact, you were the first to put the idea into my mind. That
paper shows me you have done something very wrong. I can't now
disprove the statements there: that will come later. But what I
want to say now is that you are forcing through one of the dirtiest
pieces of work that ever took place in the Company."

Fitzpatrick feebly pawed his beard, and his eyes glittered with
triumph. This was what he had waited for--to see the commissioner
slowly come to his knees before a filthy squaw, and plead for
his life!

"You don't hate me," McTavish continued, "for I never wronged you.
When you left me, I gave you enough to make you comfortable. Why
did you not tell me of this child?

"Factors have too many ways of ge