Thirlwell shivered, because it was obvious that the sick man was going over what had happened the night Strange was drowned.  His manner hinted that he was trying to excuse himself for something he had done.  Shrinking back in the bunk, he resumed in a stronger voice:  “I couldn’t stop her!  The stream was running fast.”

Then he was silent for a time and Thirlwell heard the river rolling through its ice-bound channel and the dreary wailing of the pines.  He felt disturbed; something in Driscoll’s voice and look had jarred his nerves, and it cost him an effort not to waken Father Lucien.  It was not time yet and the priest needed sleep.  Driscoll lay quiet with his eyes shut, but presently moved and began to mutter.  Thirlwell, leaning forward, caught the words:  “I never had the thing; he took it with him.”

The strained voice broke, Driscoll drew a hard breath, and feebly turned his face from the light.  After this Thirlwell, whose curiosity was excited, had less trouble to keep awake, and at length roused Father Lucien, as he had been told.  It was nearly three o’clock in the morning, the fire had sunk, and the shack was very cold.  The wind had fallen and the bush was silent; one could hear the loose snow dropping from the boughs.

Father Lucien crossed the floor and after standing for a time beside the bunk came back and sat down by the stove.

“You can put in fresh wood; it won’t disturb him now,” he said.  “He’s sleeping well.  I think the danger’s over.”

The cord wood snapped and crackled, the front of the stove got red, and sitting in a corner out of the draughts, they began to talk in low voices.

“Driscoll was delirious; he talked strangely,” Thirlwell remarked.  “Is a sick man’s raving all such stuff as dreams?”

“Ah,” said Father Lucien, “we know little yet about the working of the disordered brain, but the imagination sometimes centers on and distorts things that have happened.  Did you get a hint of intelligence in what Driscoll said?”

“I did.  He said he never had the thing.  Somebody—­Strange, perhaps—­took it with him.”

“Why do you think he meant Strange?”

“Because his mind was obviously dwelling on the night Strange’s canoe capsized.  He said it was an accident—­he could not stop her swinging across the stream—­as if he were answering somebody who accused him.  The disturbing thing was that although delirious he looked horribly afraid.”

Father Lucien was silent and Thirlwell went on:  “You have been with him for three nights.  Has he talked like this before?”

“Yes,” said Father Lucien, quietly.  “You can be trusted.  I think he is afraid.”

“Ah!” said Thirlwell, looking hard at him.  “Then I wonder why the canoe capsized.  Were they drunk, or was there a quarrel?  But perhaps you know and cannot tell!”

“I do not know.  Driscoll is not of my flock.  He is ill and it is my business to cure his sickness, but I can go no farther.  If he has other troubles, he would refuse my help.”