Chapter VII Miss West looked at the man sitting at his ease on the other side of the fireplace with a very determined tilt of her chin. “Now, Mr. Pointer—you mustn't mind if I call you that, but I'm not talking to the Inspector of Scotland Yard just now——” “_A_ Chief Inspector from the Yard—” he corrected modestly, disclaiming the elevated rank she thrust upon him. “I don't want to see _him_. I want a talk with just Mr. Pointer—a man,—a human being—who can be sorry for folk in trouble, and not look on them just as cases.” “But you see . . .” Pointer's face was very kind . . . “any information given to me is sure to be overheard by the Chief Inspector, and he may feel it his duty to make use of it. There's no use pretending he won't, miss.” She sat a moment studying him again. “Very well. Let him overhear what he likes, but all the same I want to talk to you, and not to a police-officer. I want you, and not the Inspector, to talk the case over with me, or we shall never get anywhere. And that's just where the police are in this case.” “Eh? Where?” “Nowhere!” Miss West's eyes snapped; “nowhere at all with John Carter in prison! Now, Mr. Pointer”—her smile was infectious—“you see my position, don't you? A police-officer doesn't have any personal opinions—how can he have? But _you_ have, you know.” “Well?” Pointer was smiling. Miss West jumped up and paced up and down the room. She walked with a fine, free swing. “I'll start at the very beginning. John Carter's father”—Pointer noticed that Carter was to be more to the fore than Robert Erskine—“was a prospector. He and Uncle Ian became great friends out on a shooting expedition uncle took once, and after that Mr. Carter used to regularly stop at Four Winds on his way out and back from his trips. I don't remember him well. I was such a little tot at the time. He was a widower, and once, after Jack had been ill, Uncle Ian insisted on his sending him to stay at Four Winds for six months. After that Jack used to spend his holidays from school regularly with us, and when Uncle Henry—I call him that, though, of course, he wasn't any relation to me, any more than Uncle Ian was—well, when Uncle Henry and Rob came out from England we had great times together, we three. Jack was the eldest, he was fifteen; then came Rob, who was twelve, and then I, a year younger than Rob.” She paused a moment, evidently back in the happy days of which she was speaking, then with a sigh she went on: “Jack's father died when he was about eighteen. He went to the Calgary College to study engineering, but of course he lived at Four Winds. Mr. Carter had died, leaving awfully little behind him. Uncle Ian would have paid Jack's college expenses, but he would have none of that. He used to work just like any one of the hands on the Ranch in his holidays, and took his pay just like them. Then before he was through college Uncle Ian died. Dear, kind, generous Uncle Ian! We