“I devoutly hope not,” broke in Babette fervently, “for if we do I shall be tempted to—to—”
“To what?” asked Joy sharply.
“To shoot him myself,” answered the other grimly.
“Babette!”
“Oh, you need not look so shocked,” continued Babette. “You and I have lived in the North, and we know that justice does not always follow the forms of law. And what is it that man Kipling says, ‘There’s never a Law of God or man runs North of fifty-three.’ We’re North of fifty-three at North Star, and a law unto ourselves. If Dick Bracknell is still alive, and came worrying you, I think that I could—”
“Babette, you must not say it.”
“Very well, I will not. But all the same I feel that I could, for the man is worthless, mere vermin like the wolves in the North. And that woman Lady Alcombe, of whom you told me—”
“She is dead! I learned that in England. She was killed in a motor accident.”
“It was too merciful an end for her!” said Babette quickly. “She ought to have lived to feel remorse gnawing at her heart day by day and hour by hour—”