The rain had almost stopped, and in one of the near tents he heard a sleepy voice.  But he had no fear of chance discovery.  The night would remain dark for a long time, and in his bare feet he made no sound the sharpest ears of a dog ten feet away might have heard.  Close to the cabin door, yet in such a way that the sudden opening of it would not reveal him, he paused and listened.

Distinctly he heard St. Pierre’s voice, but not the words.  A moment later came the soft, joyous laughter of a woman, and for an instant a hand seemed to grip David’s heart, filling it with pain.  There was no unhappiness in that laughter.  It seemed, instead, to tremble in an exultation of gladness.

Suddenly St. Pierre came nearer the door, and his voice was more distinct.  “Chere-coeur, I tell you it is the greatest joke of my life,” he heard him say.  “We are safe.  If it should come to the worst, we can settle the matter in another way.  I can not but sing and laugh, even in the face of it all.  And she, in that very innocence which amuses me so, has no suspicion—­”

He turned, and vainly David keyed his ears to catch the final words.  The voices in the cabin grew lower.  Twice he heard the soft laughter of the woman.  St. Pierre’s voice, when he spoke, was unintelligible.

The thought that his random adventure was bringing him to an important discovery possessed Carrigan.  St. Pierre, he believed, had been on the very edge of disclosing something which he would have given a great deal to know.  Surely in this cabin there must be a window, and the window would be open—­

Quietly he felt his way through the darkness to the shore side of the cabin.  A narrow bar of light at least partly confirmed his judgment.  There was a window.  But it was almost entirely curtained, and it was closed.  Had the curtain been drawn two inches lower, the thin stream of light would have been shut entirely out from the night.

Under this window David crouched for several minutes, hoping that in the calm which was succeeding the storm it might be opened.  The voices were still more indistinct inside.  He scarcely heard St. Pierre, but twice again he heard the low and musical laughter of the woman.  She had laughed differently with him—­and the grim smile settled on his lips as he looked up at the narrow slit of light over his head.  He had an overwhelming desire to look in.  After all, it was a matter of professional business—­and his duty.

He was glad the curtain was drawn so low.  From experiments of his own he knew there was small chance of those inside seeing him through the two-inch slit, and he raised himself boldly until his eyes were on a level with the aperture.