We tried hard to talk of other things, but it was no use, for he was bursting with the rehearsal of his story and refused to allow himself the chances we were so willing and anxious to grant him.  After a good night’s rest he might have had more self-control and better judgment, and would probably have acted differently.  But, as it was, we found it impossible to help him.

Once the pipes were lit, and the dishes cleared away, it was useless to pretend any longer.  The sparks from the burning logs zigzagged upwards into a sky brilliant with stars.  It was all wonderfully still and peaceful, and the forest odours floated to us on the sharp autumn air.  The cedar fire smelt sweet and we could just hear the gentle wash of tiny waves along the shore.  All was calm, beautiful, and remote from the world of men and passion.  It was, indeed, a night to touch the soul, and yet, I think, none of us heeded these things.  A bull-moose might almost have thrust his great head over our shoulders and have escaped unnoticed.  The death of Jake the Swede, with its sinister setting, was the real presence that held the centre of the stage and compelled attention.

“You won’t p’raps care to come along, Mister,” said Morris, by way of a beginning; “but I guess I’ll go with one of the boys here and have a hunt for it.”

“Sure,” said Hank.  “Jake an’ I done some biggish trips together in the old days, and I’ll do that much for’m.”

“It’s deep water, they tell me, round them islands,” added Silver Fizz; “but we’ll find it, sure pop,—­if it’s thar.”

They all spoke of the body as “it.”

There was a minute or two of heavy silence, and then Rushton again burst out with his story in almost the identical words he had used before.  It was almost as if he had learned it by heart.  He wholly failed to appreciate the efforts of the others to let him off.

Silver Fizz rushed in, hoping to stop him, Morris and Hank closely following his lead.

“I once knew another travellin’ partner of his,” he began quickly; “used to live down Moosejaw Rapids way—­”

“Is that so?” said Hank.

“Kind o’ useful sort er feller,” chimed in Morris.

All the idea the men had was to stop the tongue wagging before the discrepancies became so glaring that we should be forced to take notice of them, and ask questions.  But, just as well try to stop an angry bull-moose on the run, or prevent Beaver Creek freezing in mid-winter by throwing in pebbles near the shore.  Out it came!  And, though the discrepancy this time was insignificant, it somehow brought us all in a second face to face with the inevitable and dreaded climax.

“And so I tramped all over that little bit of an island, hoping he might somehow have gotten in without my knowing it, and always thinking I heard that awful last cry of his in the darkness—­and then the night dropped down impenetrably, like a damn thick blanket out of the sky, and—­”