“I have it,” replied Maria, sullenly.
“Let me see it.” Not many people resisted that tone of McTavish's.
“I refuse,” she said.
“You refuse, eh?” The blue eyes darkened to ominous black. “If you repeat that, old woman, you start with me for Winnipeg to-morrow, and you spend the rest of your life in jail. You have done me enough injury already to land you in a dozen courts. I'll give you another chance. Let me see that paper. And no funny business. I mean what I say, and you know it. We're at the point now where you, or I, win forever. Come now, dig up, and be quick!”
Perhaps, the flinty hardness, the indifferent crispness, of that voice raised dim memories in the woman's mind, for her glance wavered, for the first time.
“Come on, Maria,” interposed Donald, as the old woman framed a whining reply, “the paper is in that muskrat-skin bag around your neck. I know, because I've seen it.”
She turned upon him, bristling like an angry cat.
“Yes, and be quick, or you'll have help you don't want,” added the commissioner, coolly.
With a snarl, Maria thrust her hand into her meager bosom, and drew forth a little bag with its draw-strings. Under the fascinated eyes of the group, she opened it, and carefully extracted the worn paper.
“Please identify it, Fitzpatrick,” ordered the commissioner, and the factor of Fort Severn took the sheet in his hands.