of frost from neighbouring hills, bore strength and lightness for every
creature. The sunlight was gay on the little wooden town, on its breezy
gardens and wastes of flowering weeds, on the descent of the foaming
fall, on the clear brown river. Even the sober wood of ash and maple
glistened in the morning light, and the birds sang songs that in
countries where a longer summer reigns are only heard in spring-time.

Bart Toyner went out of the house exhausted and almost hopeless. The
source of his strength had failed within him. He looked forward to
defeat.

As it happened Toyner's official responsibility for Markham's arrest was
to be lightened. The Crown Attorney for the county had already
communicated with the local government, and a detective had been sent,
who arrived that morning by the little steamboat. Before Toyner realised
the situation he found himself in consultation with the new-comer as to
the best means of seeking Markham. Did the perfect righteousness require
that he should betray Ann's confidence and state that Markham was in
hiding somewhere within reach? Bart looked the question for a moment in
the face, and trembled before it. Then he set it aside unanswered,
resolved on reticence, whether it was right or wrong.

The detective, finding that Toyner had no clue to report, soon went to
drink Ann's beer, on business intent. Bart kept sedulously apart from
this interview. When it was over the stranger took Toyner by the arm and
told him privately that he was convinced that the young woman knew
nothing whatever about the prisoner, and as Markham had been gone now
forty-eight hours it was his opinion that it was not near Fentown that
he would be found.