this country, and pretty close to this spot. He made a getaway before
trial, and he came out here fifteen years ago. About two years later
he sent back East for his kid brother--he'd be about your age now,
Mr.--what you say your name was?--Garth, Peter Garth. You'll have
to excuse the sheriff; he's bound to search your place." Sylvie had
heard the footsteps going through the three rooms. "A woman named
Bertha Scrane, a distant cousin of Rutherford's to whom he'd been
kind, brought the child out. Now, Missis--what's your name?"

"Bella Garth," she said tranquilly. "I came out here with my husband,
who died six years ago. He's buried out there under the snow. I've
lived here with my son and my son's wife."

"Yes. It's not the household we'd been expecting to find. It's a
lonely place, Missis." He looked at Sylvie. "I should think you'd
prefer going to some town."

"We're used to it here now," Bella answered.

"How'd your husband happen here, ma'am?"

"His health was poor; he'd heard of this climate, and he wanted to
try trapping. He got on first-rate until the illness came so bad on
him, and Pete's done well ever since. We haven't suffered any."

"No, I guess not. You don't look like you'd suffered."

The talk went on, an awkward, half-disguised cross-questioning as
to Bella's birthplace, her life before she came out, her husband's
antecedents. She was extraordinarily calm, ready and reasonable with