"Indemnification!" the lawyer said.
Britton held a hand to each of them across the table.
"Thank you," he said in a choking voice, "thank you for that confidence."
"Your own survival," Ainsworth inquired, "–how was it accomplished?"
"I told you Pierre Giraud killed Simpson for insulting his wife," observed Britton. "He escaped the police and made for the mountain fastnesses, near the Klondike's head waters, with his dog-train. He found me half dead from starvation on one of the high plateaus–"
"Providence," Trascott broke in, "God's divine providence!"
"It could be nothing else," Rex agreed, "but Giraud's sacrifice was as beautiful as any act of Providence. He put me on his sled and drove straight for Dawson City and the surgeon, nourishing me all the way.
"To certain arrest?" cried Ainsworth, in profound astonishment. "He gave up his freedom for your sake?"
"Yes," was the answer. "The Mounted Police took him on sight. Giraud's doing three years for manslaughter–beastslaughter were truer–but he'll be rich when he comes out. I have taken good care of that."
"It was beautiful, beautiful!" murmured the curate, in rapture.