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Updated: May 23, 2025
"Please shake hands and say you're glad," she said. "Don't look so so frightened. This is my room and you are safe here." He held her hands tight, staring into the wonderful, violet eyes that were looking at him with the frank and unembarrassed directness of a child's. "I I don't understand," he struggled. "Marette, where is Kedsty?" "He should be returning very soon."
"My brother," said McTrigger chokingly. "I loved him. For forty years we were comrades. And Marette belonged to us, half and half. It was he who killed John Barkley." And then, after a moment in which McTrigger fought to speak steadily, he added, "And it was he my brother who also killed Inspector Kedsty." For a matter of seconds there was a dead silence between them.
He knew that the unusual and the least expected happened frequently in crime. And Marette's long hair was flowing loose about her. To use it had simply been the first inspiration of the murderer. And Kent believed, as he waited for her answer now, that Marette would tell him this. And as he waited, he felt her fingers tighten in his hand. "Tell me, Gray Goose what happened?" "I don't know Jeems "
Kent put his whole weight on the sweep to keep the scow in mid-channel. "We're safe," he repeated. "Do you understand, Marette? We're safe!" He was speaking the words for which she had waited, was telling her that at last the hour had come when she could keep her promise to him. The words, as he gave them voice, thrilled him. He felt like shouting them.
He saw Marette, an enrapturing vision of loveliness, floating before his eyes in that sacred and mysterious vestment of which he had stolen a half-frightened glimpse. In white the white, cobwebby thing of laces and embroidery that had hung straight before his eyes in white with her glorious black hair, her violet eyes, her
In the present moment all other thoughts were lost in the discovery that Marette was getting breakfast for him. He went to the door and listened. Then he opened it and looked in. Marette was on her knees before the open door of the stove, toasting bread on two forks. Her face was flushed pink.
Even Kent's intimation that he was playing a game, and his direct accusation that he was keeping Marette Radisson in hiding at his bungalow, seemed to have no disturbing effect on him. For a space he looked at Kent, as if measuring the poise of the other's mind. When he spoke, it was in a voice so quiet and calm that Kent stared at him in amazement. "I don't blame you, Kent," he said.
It ceased to be a floating thing. It was inundation, dissolution, utter obliteration almost without shock. And Kent found himself in the thundering rush of waters, holding to Marette. For a space they were under. Black water and white froth fumed and exploded over them. It seemed an age before fresh air filled Kent's nostrils. He thrust Marette upward and cried out to her. He heard her answer.
Marette, it doesn't take a great deal of nerve to go up against a man with a gun, when you've got a gun of your own; and it doesn't take such a lot of nerve to go into battle when a thousand others are going with you. But it does take nerve to face what that stranger faced. And the sick man was nothing to him. He went into that tent and nursed the other back to life.
Each moment added to his conviction that Marette was in danger. It was not physical violence he feared. He did not believe Kedsty capable of perpetrating that upon a woman. It was fear that he would take her to barracks. The fact that Marette had told him there was a powerful reason why Kedsty would not do this failed to assure him.
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