“It’s an old case, however,” said the man, the man who spoke more like an Easterner than the sheriff. “Fifteen years old! They’ve dug it up again back East. The daughter of the man that was killed came into some money and thinks she can’t spend it any better than in hunting down her father’s murderer. Now, we’ve traced Rutherford to this country, and pretty close to this spot. He made a getaway before trial, and he came out here fifteen years ago. About two years later he sent back East for his kid brother--he’d be about your age now, Mr.--what you say your name was?--Garth, Peter Garth. You’ll have to excuse the sheriff; he’s bound to search your place.” Sylvie had heard the footsteps going through the three rooms. “A woman named Bertha Scrane, a distant cousin of Rutherford’s to whom he’d been kind, brought the child out. Now, Missis--what’s your name?” “Bella Garth,” she said tranquilly. “I came out here with my husband, who died six years ago. He’s buried out there under the snow. I’ve lived here with my son and my son’s wife.” “Yes. It’s not the household we’d been expecting to find. It’s a lonely place, Missis.” He looked at Sylvie. “I should think you’d prefer going to some town.” “We’re used to it here now,” Bella answered. “How’d your husband happen here, ma’am?” “His health was poor; he’d heard of this climate, and he wanted to try trapping. He got on first-rate until the illness came so bad on him, and Pete’s done well ever since. We haven’t suffered any.” “No, I guess not. You don’t look like you’d suffered.” The talk went on, an awkward, half-disguised cross-questioning as to Bella’s birthplace, her life before she came out, her husband’s antecedents. She was extraordinarily calm, ready and reasonable with her replies. “Well, sir”--the sheriff strolled back into the room--“I reckon these aren’t the parties we’re after. But look a-here, this is a description of Ham Rutherford. Likely you might have had a glimpse of him since you came into the country. When he made his getaway he was about thirty-two, height five feet eight, ugly, black-haired, noticeable eyes, manner violent. He was deformed, one leg shorter, one shoulder higher than the other, mouth twisted, and a scar across the nose. He’d been hurt in a fire when he was a child--” Sylvie broke into a spontaneous ripple of mirth, the full measure of her relief. “Goodness,” she said with utter spontaneity. “There’s certainly never been a monster like that in this house, has there, Pete?” It did more than all that had gone before to convince the inquisitors. From that minute there was a distinct relaxation; the evening, indeed, turned to one of sociability. “We hate to inconvenience you, ma’am, but it seems like at this distance from town we’ve got to ask you for supper and a place to sleep.”