as the eyes of a wounded doe. Dick had never realised her beauty so keenly before. He stooped lower.
"Will—he be—kill?" she whispered.
"Undoubtedly. I think he wants to be killed, Andree. Do you know why?"
The tears darkened her eyes. She put up her long, slender hands, framing Dick's face in them.
"What matter—if he want it so?" she asked.
"What matter indeed. Not worth crying over, is it, Andree? But why does he want it so?"
"Bien," she said. "He want to love me too much. It is better—quite better for him an' Ogilvie. Cela est fort bien. I do not want them to love me. Tapwa, Dick; they do deserve it." Her soft fingers tapped gently against his temples. "They do deserve it," she said, and there was no feeling in her voice.
Dick drew his breath in, looking at her.
"Whether they deserve it or not I think most men will get it in one way or another if they love you, Grange's Andree," he said. "Why were you crying, then?"
"I—was frightened," she said. And then she sprang up; laughing and brilliant again.
"I go to put the hair of Moosta in its pins some more," she said. "One pin will do—if so it is in the right place."
Dick had gone away, but he was not satisfied. If Robison chose to die undefended that was the man's own business. But the matter would have been clearer if Robison had made a legitimate fight for his life.
But if Dick dreaded those Edmonton days for Jennifer, Tempest dreaded still more the knowledge that there they would make Andree swear away a man's life. He tortured himself over the matter, bitterly angry with Dick because of his share in it; illogical, anxious, wearied out by stress of work and of thought. Everything which was said and done seemed to rasp and hurt the delicate edges of his nature, and Dick, coming into the office on the last evening where Tempest was making up his end of the month reports, understood that he would have to take this thing in hand very shortly, or it would be too late; if, indeed, it were not too late now.
Tempest looked up and handed a paper over the desk.
