to be thirty-six, even though over one temple there was a streak
of gray in his blond hair--a heritage from his mother, who was
dead. Looking at him, as his lips quietly and calmly confessed
himself beyond the pale of men's sympathy or forgiveness, one
would have said that his crime was impossible.

Through his window, as he sat bolstered up in his cot, Kent could
see the slow-moving shimmer of the great Athabasca River as it
moved on its way toward the Arctic Ocean. The sun was shining, and
he saw the cool, thick masses of the spruce and cedar forests
beyond, the rising undulations of wilderness ridges and hills, and
through that open window he caught the sweet scents that came with
a soft wind from out of the forests he had loved for so many
years.

"They've been my best friends," he had said to Cardigan, "and when
this nice little thing you're promising happens to me, old man, I
want to go with my eyes on them."

So his cot was close to the window.

Nearest to him sat Cardigan. In his face, more than in any of the
others, was disbelief. Kedsty, Inspector of the Royal Northwest
Mounted Police, in charge of N Division during an indefinite leave
of absence of the superintendent, was paler even than the girl
whose nervous fingers were swiftly putting upon paper every word
that was spoken by those in the room. O'Connor, staff-sergeant,
was like one struck dumb. The little, smooth-faced Catholic
missioner whose presence as a witness Kent had requested, sat with
his thin fingers tightly interlaced, silently placing this among