“Make a list of them.” “Why? What do you——” “Make a list of them!” snapped Paul. The list was made out, Paul supervising and hastening the operation. “You are sure these are all the papers relating to my father?” said Paul, again boring him with steely eyes. “Certain,” said Sleeman. “They are all there.” Paul took the list, read it carefully, wrote a few words under it, signed the paper and handed it back. “I shall take these for a few weeks,” he said quietly, making a sheaf of the papers and snapping a rubber band about them. “I shall return them to you in good order.” “You have no right! You can’t——” began Sleeman, sputtering in his wrath. Paul rose, put the bundle in his inner pocket. “Why can’t I?” he said. “Do you see any reason? I don’t.” So saying he turned about and left Sleeman standing with his mouth open and in a fury, if the colour of his face gave any indication. At the door he turned and came back to Sleeman. “You have a new house. Your old house was burned. You know by whom.” “Yes, I know. The——” Paul with one stride was close to him. “Stop!” he said, gripping him by the arm. “You are speaking of my father’s wife. You fool! Don’t you know you are trifling with death?” “My arm!” cried Sleeman. “You are breaking my arm.” Paul flung his arm from him. “She burned your house after you had attempted to outrage her,” he said. The cold fury in his eyes struck Sleeman’s thumping heart with a new terror. This young man stood to him for the very vengeance of God. Indeed he could not understand why it was that he had not been killed an hour ago for a crime for which western men show no mercy. For some moments Paul stool regarding him with steady eyes, as if deliberating the man’s fate. “You know you should not be alive, Sleeman,” he said in a voice low, tense, terrifying. “I wonder if God means me to kill you?” “No! No! For God’s sake, Paul! I am a sick man! Don’t touch me! I was wrong. I was wrong. I don’t blame her. I—I——” He was shaking in all his body. He looked indeed a sick man. A sudden thought came to Paul. “Go and write down what you have said, and sign it! Go quick!” he commanded. “Yes! yes! What?” Paul dictated a confession of his crime, and an exoneration of his stepmother from guilt, which the shaking man signed with trembling, eager fingers. He was very near the limit of his endurance, and was anxious only that he should get through this interview alive and scathless. Putting the confession into his pocket with the other papers Paul turned once more to Sleeman. “What was your old house worth?” “Oh—not much—not much. I don’t know. I——” “Listen to me,” said Paul. “Colonel Pelham will act for me as arbitrator. Appoint your man. I will pay what they decide to be right.” Sleeman gazed at him in open mouthed astonishment. “Pay me!” he gasped. “No! no! Oh, Paul, I don’t want pay for that—I——”