Twice only did anything of
moment crop up.
"You spoke of the first shot, Mr. La Flitche. Now, the walls of a log
cabin are quite thick. Had your door been closed, do you think you
could have heard that first shot?"
He shook his head, though his dark eyes told her he divined the point
she was endeavoring to establish.
"And had the door of Borg's cabin been closed, would you have heard?"
Again he shook his head.
"Then, Mr. La Flitche, when you say the first shot, you do not mean
necessarily the first shot fired, but rather the first shot you heard
fired?"
He nodded, and though she had scored her point she could not see that
it had any material bearing after all.
Again she worked up craftily to another and stronger climax, though she
felt all the time that La Flitche fathomed her.
"You say it was very dark, Mr. La Flitche?"
"Ah, oui; quite dark."
"How dark? How did you know it was John you met?"
"John make much noise when he run. I know that kind of noise."
"Could you see him so as to know that it was he?"
"Ah, no."
"Then, Mr. La Flitche," she demanded, triumphantly, "will you please
state how you knew there was blood on the hands of Mr. St. Vincent?"
His lip lifted in a dazzling smile, and he paused a moment. "How? I
feel it warm on his hands. And my nose--ah, the smoke of the hunter
camp long way off, the hole where the rabbit hide, the track of the
moose which has gone before, does not my nose tell me?" He flung his
head back, and with tense face, eyes closed, nostrils quivering and
dilated, he simulated the quiescence of all the senses save one and the
concentration of his whole being upon that one.
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