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Page 3
Conniston, lighting another taper over the oil flame, hesitated and
answered: "I don't know yet, old chap. What did you do?"
"I fairly got down on my knees to the scoundrel," resumed Keith. "If
ever a man begged for another man's life, I begged for my father's--for
the few words from Kirkstone that would set him free. I offered
everything I had in the world, even my body and soul. God, I'll never
forget that night! He sat there, fat and oily, two big rings on his
stubby fingers--a monstrous toad in human form--and he chuckled and
laughed at me in his joy, as though I were a mountebank playing amusing
tricks for him--and there my soul was bleeding itself out before his
eyes! And his son came in, fat and oily and accursed like his father,
and HE laughed at me. I didn't know that such hatred could exist in the
world, or that vengeance could bring such hellish joy. I could still
hear their gloating laughter when I stumbled out into the night. It
haunted me. I heard it in the trees. It came in the wind. My brain was
filled with it--and suddenly I turned back, and I went into that house
again without knocking, and I faced the two of them alone once more in
that room. And this time, Conniston, I went back to get justice--or to
kill. Thus far it was premeditated, but I went with my naked hands.
There was a key in the door, and I locked it. Then I made my demand. I
wasted no words--"
Keith rose from the table and began to pace back and forth. The wind
had died again. They could hear the yapping of the foxes and the low
thunder of the ice.
"The son began it," said Keith. "He sprang at me. I struck him. We
grappled, and then the beast himself leaped at me with some sort of
weapon in his hand. I couldn't see what it was, but it was heavy. The
first blow almost broke my shoulder. In the scuffle I wrenched it from
his hand, and then I found it was a long, rectangular bar of copper
made for a paper-weight. In that same instant I saw the son snatch up a
similar object from the table, and in the act he smashed the table
light. In darkness we fought. I did not feel that I was fighting men.
They were monsters and gave me the horrible sensation of being in
darkness with crawling serpents. Yes, I struck hard. And the son was
striking, and neither of us could see. I felt my weapon hit, and it was
then that Kirkstone crumpled down with a blubbery wheeze. You know what
happened after that. The next morning only one copper weight was found
in that room. The son had done away with the other. And the one that
was left was covered with Kirkstone's blood and hair. There was no
chance for me. So I got away. Six months later my father died in
prison, and for three years I've been hunted as a fox is hunted by the
hounds. That's all, Conniston. Did I kill Judge Kirkstone? And, if I
killed him, do you think I'm sorry for it, even though I hang?"
"Sit down!"
The Englishman's voice was commanding. Keith dropped back to his seat,
breathing hard. He saw a strange light in the steely blue eyes of
Conniston.
"Keith, when a man knows he's going to live, he is blind to a lot of
things. But when he knows he's going to die, it's different. If you had
told me that story a month ago, I'd have taken you down to the hangman
just the same. It would have been my duty, you know, and I might have
argued you were lying. But you can't lie to me--now. Kirkstone deserved
to die. And so I've made up my mind what you're going to do. You're not
going back to Coronation Gulf. You're going south. You're going back
into God's country again. And you're not going as John Keith, the
murderer, but as Derwent Conniston of His Majesty's Royal Northwest
Mounted Police! Do you get me, Keith? Do you understand?"
Keith simply stared. The Englishman twisted a mustache, a half-humorous
gleam in his eyes. He had been thinking of this plan of his for some
time, and he had foreseen just how it would take Keith off his feet.
"Quite a scheme, don't you think, old chap? I like you. I don't mind
saying I think a lot of you, and there isn't any reason on earth why
you shouldn't go on living in my shoes. There's no moral objection. No
one will miss me. I was the black sheep back in England--younger
brother and all that--and when I had to choose between Africa and
Canada, I chose Canada. An Englishman's pride is the biggest fool thing
on earth, Keith, and I suppose all of them over there think I'm dead.
They haven't heard from me in six or seven years. I'm forgotten. And
the beautiful thing about this scheme is that we look so deucedly
alike, you know. Trim that mustache and beard of yours a little, add a
bit of a scar over your right eye, and you can walk in on old McDowell
himself, and I'll wager he'll jump up and say, 'Bless my heart, if it
isn't Conniston!' That's all I've got to leave you, Keith, a dead man's
clothes and name. But you're welcome. They'll be of no more use to me
after tomorrow."
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