“She is not to be worried. Let the policeman talk to me if he wishes, but he is not to see her. She has for six years been haunted by a dread of the police. Her whole tribe have covered the trail all this time. Let her go in peace. Let him talk to me.” The following morning it was that the sergeant, sauntering about the Post, came to the hut placed by the factor at the disposal of the Indian woman and her family. He was met at the door by Paul, who immediately stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “You can’t come in,” he said, facing the sergeant. “No?” “No!” “It would be good that I should see the sick woman,” said the sergeant in a courteous voice. “You will not see her,” said the youth. The sergeant noted, as it was his business to note, the glitter as of steel in the blue grey eye, the lips thin to a line, the muscles stiffen as for a spring. “Steady, young man,” he said in a quiet voice. “Don’t do anything rash. I don’t want to hurt her or you. But I must interview her.” “No!” said Paul. “Young man, I must do my duty.” At the word Paul wavered. “Your duty? Yes, you must do your duty. But she is very ill. She is dying. Ask Mr. Chambers. He knows.” The distress in his face touched the sergeant’s heart. “I shall see the missionary,” he said. “Oh, thank you,” said Paul, impulsively offering his hand. “She is very ill. She would be afraid of you, and she must not be troubled. It will be only a few days.” “All right, young man. We won’t do anything to hurt her. You are all right.” He shook hands warmly and went on his way. CHAPTER XVIII It was the Indian woman herself that settled the matter of the interview with Sergeant Starr. After a day’s pain more acute than usual she sent for the missionary. “I have something to tell you. Can you receive my confession and give me absolution?” she asked him, acute anxiety shining in her dark eyes. The missionary, being more man than missionary and having had large experience of the soul with its burdens of sin and terror, answered quietly, “Tell me your trouble. Do not fear. There is forgiveness for you, and peace.” “I have done a very wicked thing. I want absolution and the holy oil before I—go away. And I want you to put it on paper for the police at Edmonton. It is for Paul—it may hurt him. It is—for Paul,” she added, clutching the missionary’s arm. “Nothing must hurt Paul.” “Dear sister, tell me your sin, and if you wish you may tell the police yourself. He is here.” “Here? Here?” A momentary fear leaped into her eyes, then faded out. “Ah, good! Let him come. Let him come, quick! And Paul. Quick! Quick!” “He will come at once,” said the missionary, and hastened to bring the sergeant. At the door he met Paul. “She has asked to see the sergeant,” said Chambers. “Wait,” said Paul, and went to her. He found her in a fever of eagerness and impatience.