As she flung her questions at him eagerly, impetuously, the man’s face clouded, and again a jealous light came in his eyes. It was a moment before he answered the questions, and to Babette, watching him it appeared that he was struggling hard for self-mastery.
“Yes,” he replied, at last, in a hoarse voice. “He is alive! He came to my cabin by accident. He had broken his leg, and had lain in an Indian encampment for weeks. There he had heard news which had sent him hot foot on the trail of a man who was responsible for your father’s death!”
“For my father’s death?” as she cried the words Joy’s face was white as the snow about her. “But—but——”
Her voice faltered, and guessing what she would have said, Bracknell explained. “I am afraid it will come as a shock to you even after these three or four years, but it appears to be the fact that your father’s death was not altogether accidental.
“My cousin had a very circumstantial story of the affair, and he was on the trail of the man who was responsible for the crime, the same man, as he believes, who shot me on the night when I had arranged that meeting with you at North Star.”
“But who is the man?” asked Joy quickly.
“My cousin gave me no name, indeed he declined to do so. But he had his theory, and he went so far as to tell me that not only did the Indian who was with him know the man, but that he himself believed that he knew him.”
“Ah!” cried Joy.