deed. But it was only the child, chuckling as it tried to grasp a narrow beam of sunshine which fell athwart the blankets. With lightning rapidity Hugo thrust the ring into an inside pocket of his jacket and sprang to his feet. He stepped swiftly to the side of the bunk and glared down upon the child. Then a harsh, mirthless laugh burst from his lips. The perspiration stood out in beads upon his forehead.
“Hugo, you’re a fool,” he growled. “What has come over you, anyway? No more such nonsense.”
He went to the door, opened it and looked out. The air cooled his hot brow. He felt better, and more like himself. He was anxious now to get away from that cabin. It was not good for him to be there—with the ring and the child. The place was polluted. Innocent blood had been shed in that room, and who could tell what might happen should he stay much longer? He had always scoffed at the idea of ghosts. But he did not wish to remain in that building overnight. He had a peculiar creeping sensation whenever he thought of it. He was not afraid of travellers who might call in passing. But he did have great respect for the Mounted Police, the redoubtable guardians of the north, the sleuth-hounds of the trails. Should they suddenly appear, he might find the situation most embarrassing. Alone with the child, and with the marks of a tragedy so evident, he might have difficulty in convincing them of his innocency in the affair. And should the ring he discovered upon his person, his position would be far from enviable.
Hugo’s greatest fear, however, was of himself. He could not explain the reason, but so long as he remained in that cabin he could not feel responsible for his acts. A subtle influence seemed to pervade the place which
