His blood ran a little faster, and his old craft was a dominantly living thing within him once more.  Love had dulled both his ingenuity and his desire.  For a space a thing had risen before him that was mightier than the majesty of the Law, and he had tried to miss the bull’s-eye—­because of his love for the wife of St. Pierre Boulain.  Now he shot squarely for it, and the bell rang in his brain.  Two times two again made four.  Facts assembled themselves like arguments in flesh and blood.  Those facts would have convinced Superintendent McVane, and they now convinced David.  He had set out to get Black Roger Audemard, alive or dead.  And Black Roger, wholesale murderer, a monster who had painted the blackest page of crime known in the history of Canadian law, was closely and vitally associated with Marie-Anne and St. Pierre Boulain!

The thing was a shock, but Carrigan no longer tried to evade the point.  His business was no longer with a man supposed to be a thousand or fifteen hundred miles farther north.  It was with Marie-Anne, St. Pierre, and Andre, the Broken Man.  And also with Concombre Bateese.

He smiled a little grimly as he thought of his approaching battle with the half-breed.  St. Pierre would be astounded at the proposition he had in store for him.  But he was sure that St. Pierre would accept.  And then, if he won the fight with Bateese—­

The smile faded from his lips.  His face grew older as he looked slowly about the bateau cabin, with its sweet and lingering whispers of a woman’s presence.  It was a part of her.  It breathed of her fragrance and her beauty; it seemed to be waiting for her, crying softly for her return.  Yet once had there been another woman even lovelier than the wife of St. Pierre.  He had not hesitated then.  Without great effort he had triumphed over the loveliness of Carmin Fanchet and had sent her brother to the hangman.  And now, as he recalled those days, the truth came to him that even in the darkest hour Carmin Fanchet had made not the slightest effort to buy him off with her beauty.  She had not tried to lure him.  She had fought proudly and defiantly.  And had Marie-Anne done that?  His fingers clenched slowly, and a thickening came in his throat.  Would she tell St. Pierre of the many hours they had spent together?  Would she confess to him the secret of that precious moment when she had lain close against his breast, her arms about him, her face pressed to his?  Would she speak to him of secret hours, of warm flushes that had come to her face, of glowing fires that at times had burned in her eyes when he had been very near to her?  Would she reveal everything to St. Pierre—­ her husband?  He was powerless to combat the voice that told him no.  Carmin Fanchet had fought him openly as an enemy and had not employed her beauty as a weapon.  Marie-Anne had put in his way a great temptation.  What he was thinking seemed to him like a sacrilege, yet he knew there could be no discriminating distinctions between weapons, now that he was determined to play the game to the end, for the Law.