Silent, his head bowed a little, John Aldous stood before her after those
last words. A slight noise outside gave him the pretext to turn to the
door. She was going to Tête Jaune--to find her husband! He had not expected
that. For a breath, as he looked out toward the bush, his mind was in a
strange daze. A dozen times she had given him to understand there was no
husband, father, or brother waiting for her at the rail-end. She had told
him that she was alone--without friends. And now, like a confession, those
words had come strangely from her lips.

What he had heard was one of Otto's pack-horses coming down to drink. He
turned toward her again.

Joanne stood with her back still to the table. She had slipped a hand into
the front of her dress and had drawn forth a long thick envelope. As she
opened it, Aldous saw that it contained banknotes. From among these she
picked out a bit of paper and offered it to him.

"That will explain--partly," she said.

It was a newspaper clipping, worn and faded, with a date two years old. It
had apparently been cut from an English paper, and told briefly of the
tragic death of Mortimer FitzHugh, son of a prominent Devonshire family,
who had lost his life while on a hunting trip in the British Columbia
Wilds.

"He was my husband," said Joanne, as Aldous finished. "Until six months ago
I had no reason to believe that the statement in the paper was not true.
Then--an acquaintance came out here hunting. He returned with a strange
story. He declared that he had seen Mr. FitzHugh alive. Now you know why I
am here. I had not meant to tell you. It places me in a light which I do