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Suddenly, as he looked at her, an idea seemed to flash into his mind. He came very near and looked at her closely. Then he reached over and almost touched the scar on her forehead.

“Did he do that, Jo?”

For an instant she was silent and looked down at the floor. Presently she raised her eyes, her face suffused. Once or twice she tried to speak, but failed. At last she gained courage, and said:

“After Cynthy’s death I kept house for him for a year, taking care of little Bobby. I loved Bobby so–he has Cynthy’s eyes. One day Dorland–oh, Nett, of course I oughtn’t to have stayed there–I know it now; but I was only sixteen, and what did I understand! And my mother was dead. One day–oh, please, Nett, you can guess. He said something to me. I made him leave the house. Before I could make plans what to do, he came back mad with drink. I went for Bobby, to get out of the house, but he caught hold of me. I struck him in the face, and he threw me against the edge of the open door. It made the scar.”

Foyle’s face was white. “Why did you never write and tell me that, Jo? You know that I–” He stopped suddenly.

“You had gone out of our lives down there. I didn’t know where you were for a long time; and then–then it was all right about Bobby and me, except that Bobby didn’t get the money that was his. But now–“

Foyle’s voice was hoarse and low. “He made that scar, and he–and you only sixteen–Oh, my God!”

Suddenly his face reddened, and he choked with shame and anger. “And he’s my brother!” was all that he could say.

“Do you see him up here ever?” she asked, pityingly.

“I never saw him till a week ago.” A moment, then he added, “The letter wasn’t to be sent here in his own name, was it?”

She nodded. “Yes, in his own name, Dorland W. Foyle. Didn’t he go by that name when you saw him?”

There was an oppressive silence, in which she saw that something moved him strangely, and then he answered, “No, he was going by the name of Halbeck–Hiram Halbeck.”

The girl gasped. Then the whole thing burst upon her. “Hiram Halbeck! Hiram Halbeck, the thief–I read it all in the papers–the thief that you caught, and that got away. And you’ve left the Mounted Police because of it–oh, Nett!” Her eyes were full of tears, her face was drawn and gray.

He nodded. “I didn’t know who he was till I arrested him,” he said. “Then, afterward, I thought of his child, and let him get away; and for my poor old mother’s sake. She never knew how bad he was, even as a boy. But I remember how he used to steal and drink the brandy from her bedside, when she had the fever. She never knew the worst of him. But I let him away in the night, Jo, and I resigned, and they thought that Halbeck had beaten me, had escaped. Of course I couldn’t stay in the Force, having done that. But, by the heaven above us, if I had him here now I’d do the thing–do it, so help me God!”

“Why should you ruin your life for him?” she said, with an outburst of indignation. All that was in her heart welled up in her eyes at the thought of what Foyle was. “You must not do it. You shall not do it. He must pay for his wickedness, not you. It would be a sin. You and what becomes of you mean so much.” Suddenly, with a flash of purpose, she added, “He will come for that letter, Nett. He would run any kind of risk to get a dollar. He will come here for that letter–perhaps to-day.”

He shook his head moodily, oppressed by the trouble that was on him. “He’s not likely to venture here, after what’s happened.”