what for? Why such a risk?"

Joan shook her head.

"Were you just unhappy--lonesome? Did some young miner happen to see
you there in daylight--then come at night? Wasn't it only accident?
Tell me."

"I won't--and I won't because I don't want you to spill more blood."

"For my sake," he queried, with the old, mocking tone. Then he grew
dark with blood in his face, fierce with action of hands and body as
he bent nearer her. "Maybe you like him too well to see him shot? ...
Did you--whisper often to this stranger?"

Joan felt herself weakening. Kells was so powerful in spirit and
passion that she seemed unable to fight him. She strove to withhold
her reply, but it burst forth, involuntarily.

"Yes--often."

That roused more than anger and passion. Jealousy flamed from him
and it transformed him into a devil.

"You held hands out of that window--and kissed--in the dark?" he
cried, with working lips.

Joan had thought of this so fearfully and intensely--she had battled
so to fortify herself to keep it secret--that he had divined it, had
read her mind. She could not control herself. The murder of Pearce