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Updated: June 1, 2025
He examined more closely the abrasion on Kedsty's forehead. It was not a deep wound, and the blow that had made it must have stunned the Inspector of Police for only a short time. In that space the other thing had happened.
His head was strained so far over the back of the chair that it looked as though his neck had been broken. On his forehead, close up against his short-cropped, iron-gray hair, was a red stain. Kent approached and bent over him. He had seen death too many times not to recognize it now, but seldom had he seen a face twisted and distorted as Kedsty's was.
It was filled with the things she had picked up quickly in her room the night of their flight from Kedsty's bungalow, and as he drew them out one by one and placed them in the sun on the rock, a new and sudden rush of life swept through his veins, and he sprang to his feet and faced the river again, as if at last a hope had come to him.
That being the case, I owe you no more respect than I owe to any other man. And I am pleased to have the very great privilege of calling you a cursed scoundrel!" Kedsty's face was hot, but as his hands clenched slowly, it turned redder. Before he could speak, Kent went on. "You have not shown me the courtesy or the sympathy you have had for the worst criminals that ever faced you.
By traveling in that timber it was possible for her to reach Kedsty's bungalow without being seen. It must have been difficult going, with shoes half as big as my hand and heels two inches high! And I've been wondering, why didn't she wear bush-country shoes or moccasins?" "Because she came from the South and not the North," suggested Kent. "Probably up from Edmonton." "Exactly.
Kent, unwrapping a last bit of tissue-paper, found in his hands a long tress of hair. "See, Jeems, it has grown fast since I cut it that night." She leaned a little toward him, parting her hair with slim, white fingers so that he saw again where the hair had been clipped the night of Kedsty's death.
His thought was of Marette, of the fate which dawn and discovery would bring for her. His hands clenched and his jaws tightened. The world was against him, and tomorrow it would be against her. Only he, in the face of all that condemning evidence in the room beyond, would disbelieve her guilty of Kedsty's death. And he, Jim Kent, was already a murderer in the eyes of the law.
He has not put a foot on the stair. That is the dead-line. And I know you are wondering. You are asking yourself a great many questions a bon droit, M'sieu Jeems. You are burning up with them. I can see it. And I " There was something suddenly pathetic about her, as she sank into the big-armed, upholstered chair which had been Kedsty's favorite reading chair.
Fingers' nerve had gone back on him. The fifth day Kent rose from his cot with hope still not quite dead in his heart. But that day passed and the sixth, and the missioner brought word that Fingers was the old Dirty Fingers again, sitting from morning till night on his porch. On the seventh day came the final crash to Kent's hopes. Kedsty's program had changed.
And Kent reached up, and took the hand, and held it close in his own, as he said, "Little Gray Goose, please tell me now what happened in Kedsty's room?" His voice thrilled with an immeasurable faith. He wanted her to know, no matter what had happened, that this faith and his love for her could not be shaken. He believed in her, and would always believe in her.
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