Inside the house, with the cooling drinks, Varley pressed his questions,
and presently, much interested, told at some length of singular cases
which had passed through his hands--one a man with his neck broken, who
had lived for six months afterward.

"Broken as a man's neck is broken by hanging--dislocation, really--the
disjointing of the medulla oblongata, if you don't mind technicalities,"
he said. "But I kept him living just the same. Time enough for him to
repent in and get ready to go. A most interesting case. He was a
criminal, too, and wanted to die; but you have to keep life going if
you can, to the last inch of resistance."

The priest looked thoughtfully out of the window; Finden's eyes were
screwed up in a questioning way, but neither made any response to
Varley's remarks. There was a long minute's silence. They were all
three roused by hearing a light footstep on the veranda.

Father Bourassa put down his glass and hastened into the hallway. Finden
caught a glimpse of a woman's figure, and, without a word, passed
abruptly from the dining-room where they were, into the priest's study,
leaving Varley alone. Varley turned to look after him, stared, and
shrugged his shoulders.

"The manners of the West," he said good-humouredly, and turned again to
the hallway, from whence came the sound of the priest's voice. Presently
there was another voice--a woman's. He flushed slightly and
involuntarily straightened himself.

"Valerie," he murmured.