to his hiding-place under the roof. He knew that a
strange sort of madness was in his blood, for in the face of tonight's
tragedy only madness could inspire him with the ecstatic thrill that
was in his veins. Kedsty's death seemed far removed from a more
important thing--the fact that from this hour Marette was his to fight
for, that she belonged to him, that she must go with him. He loved her.
In spite of whoever she was and whatever she had done, he loved her.
Very soon she would tell him what had happened in the room below, and
the thing would be clear.

There was one little corner of his brain that fought him. It kept
telling him, like a parrot, that it was a tress of Marette's hair about
Kedsty's throat, and that it was the hair that had choked him. But
Marette would explain that, too. He was sure of it. In the face of the
facts below he was illogical and unreasonable. He knew it. But his love
for this girl, who had come strangely and tragically into his life, was
like an intoxicant. And his faith was illimitable. She did not kill
Kedsty. Another part of his brain kept repeating that over and over,
even as he recalled that only a few hours before she had told him quite
calmly that she would kill the Inspector of Police--if a certain thing
should happen.

His hands worked as swiftly as his thoughts. He laced up his service
boots. All the food and dishes on the table he made into a compact
bundle and placed in the shoulder-pack. He carried this and the rifle
out into the hall. Then he returned to Marette's room. The door was
closed. At his knock the girl's voice told him that she was not quite
ready.

He waited. He could hear her moving about quickly in her room. An
interval of silence followed. Another five minutes
passed--ten--fifteen. He tapped at the door again. This time it was
opened.

He stared, amazed at the change in Marette. She had stepped back from
the door to let him enter, and stood full in the lamp-glow. Her slim,
beautiful body was dressed in a velvety blue corduroy; the coat was
close-fitting and boyish; the skirt came only a little below her knees.
On her feet were high-topped caribou boots. About her waist was a
holster and the little black gun. Her hair was done up and crowded
under a close-fitting turban. She was exquisitely lovely, as she stood
there waiting for him, and in that loveliness Kent saw there was not
one thing out of place. The corduroy, the turban, the short skirt, and
the hi