Keith's face aged even as the dying Englishman stared at him. "I
suppose--I'll go back," he said heavily.

"You mean to Coronation Gulf? You'll return to that stinking mess of
Eskimo igloos? If you do, you'll go mad!"

"I expect to," said Keith. "But it's the only thing left. You know
that. You of all men must know how they've hunted me. If I went south--"

It was Conniston's turn to nod his head, slowly and thoughtfully. "Yes,
of course," he agreed. "They're hunting you hard, and you're giving 'em
a bully chase. But they'll get you, even up there. And I'm--sorry."

Their hands unclasped. Conniston filled his pipe and lighted it. Keith
noticed that he held the lighted taper without a tremor. The nerve of
the man was magnificent.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I--like you. Do you know, Keith, I wish
we'd been born brothers and you hadn't killed a man. That night I
slipped the ring-dogs on you I felt almost like a devil. I wouldn't say
it if it wasn't for this bally lung. But what's the use of keeping it
back now? It doesn't seem fair to keep a man up in that place for three
years, running from hole to hole like a rat, and then take him down for
a hanging. I know it isn't fair in your case. I feel it. I don't mean
to be inquisitive, old chap, but I'm not believing Departmental 'facts'
any more. I'd make a topping good wager you're not the sort they make
you out. And so I'd like to know--just why--you killed Judge Kirkstone?"

Keith's two fists knotted in the center of the table. Conniston saw his