he would have sworn was fear.

It was a gruesome moment in which to smile, but Kent smiled. The
shock was over. By the rules of the Criminal Code he knew that
Kedsty even now was instructing Staff-Sergeant O'Connor to detail
an officer to guard his door. The fact that he was ready to pop
off at any moment would make no difference in the regulations of
the law. And Kedsty was a stickler for the law as it was written.
Through the closed door he heard voices indistinctly. Then there
were footsteps, dying away. He could hear the heavy thump, thump
of O'Connor's big feet. O'Connor had always walked like that, even
on the trail.

Softly then the door reopened, and Father Layonne, the little
missioner, came in. Kent knew that this would be so, for Father
Layonne knew neither code nor creed that did not reach all the
hearts of the wilderness. He came back, and sat down close to
Kent, and took one of his hands and held it closely in both of his
own. They were not the soft, smooth hands of the priestly
hierarchy, but were hard with the callosity of toil, yet gentle
with the gentleness of a great sympathy. He had loved Kent
yesterday, when Kent had stood clean in the eyes of both God and
men, and he still loved him today, when his soul was stained with
a thing that must be washed away with his own life.

"I'm sorry, lad," he said. "I'm sorry."

Something rose up in Kent's throat that was not the blood he had
been wiping away since morning. His fingers returned the pressure
of the little missioner's hands. Then he pointed out through the