I'll be in the kitchen. Pete, be taking off your outdoor clothes.
They'll have seen Hugh's tracks even if they haven't seen him, so
somebody's got to have just come in. Be whistling and talking, natural
and calm. Remember we're all at home, just quiet and happy--no reason
to be afraid. That's it."

Through her darkness Sylvie heard the knocking and Pete's opening
of the door, the scraping of snow, the questions, the simplicity of
Pete's replies.

Then she was made known. "My wife, gentlemen!" And a moment later:
"My mother!" And she heard Bella's greeting, loud and cheerful like
that of a woman who is glad to see a visitor. Chairs were drawn up
and cigarettes rolled and lighted. She smelt the sharp sweetness of
the smoke. There was brief talk of the weather; Sylvie felt that while
they talked, the two strangers searched the place and the faces of
its inmates with cold, keen, suspicious eyes. She was grateful now
for her blindness. There came a sharp statement:

"We're looking for Ham Rutherford, the murderer." Sylvie's heart
contracted in her breast.

"Well, sir," laughed Pete, in his most boyish, light-hearted fashion,
"that sounds interesting. But it's a new name to me."

"It's an old case, however," said the man, the man who spoke more
like an Easterner than the sheriff. "Fifteen years old! They've dug
it up again back East. The daughter of the man that was killed came
into some money and thinks she can't spend it any better than in
hunting down her father's murderer. Now, we've traced Rutherford to