"Yes, a woman—a woman who lives—or lived—up in the Stikine River country you mentioned to-day."
David's heart stirred strangely.
"The Stikine River, or—or—Firepan Creek?" he asked.
It seemed a long time to him before Father Roland answered. He was thinking deeply, with his eyes half closed, as though striving to recall things that he had forgotten.
"Yes—it was on the Firepan. I am sure of it," he said slowly. "He was sick—small-pox, as I told you—and it was on the Firepan. I remember that. And whoever the woman was, she was there. A woman! And he—afraid! Afraid, even now, with her a thousand miles away, if she lives. Can you account for it? I would give a great deal to know. But he will say nothing. And—it is not my business to intrude. Yet I have guessed. I have my own conviction. It is terrible."
He spoke in a low voice, looking straight at David.
"And that conviction, Father?" David barely whispered.
"Tavish is afraid of some one who is dead."
"Dead!"
"Yes, a woman—or a girl—who is dead; dead in the flesh, but living in the spirit to haunt him. It is that. I know it. And he will not bare his soul to me."