He smiled at his recent terror. But again, even as he smiled, deep within him there was an uneasy stirring that his terrors would come upon him again when his mood had changed. For the present he had shaken from him his fear. He would meet his wife with a quiet face and a steady eye. He sprang to his feet. He must get home quickly. The lunch hour was long since past, and explanations would be expected. Well, they were easy: he had carried the woman’s bundle to her camp by the Big Rapid. He set off, whistling bravely a merry lilt. A sudden memory killed the song at his lips. There was his son Paul. He had witnessed the meeting with the Indian woman. Just what had been said and done, he could not well remember, the shock of the meeting had been so overpowering. The boy’s powers of perception were uncanny and, too, he was free of speech, terribly so. What had he noticed? What were the boy’s thoughts about that meeting and conversation? That there had been previous acquaintance had been made clear. Had he not called her by her Indian name? He was almost sure he had. He could not deny acquaintance. Well! It was safest not to deny too much. Of course, he had met her and her people in his wanderings, had hunted with her tribe—very decent lot they were too, they had done him a good turn and were great friends of his. There must be no mystery about this. Yes, he would take Paul to visit their camp some day, as doubtless the boy would demand. But he would take care that the camp would be deserted on the day of the visit. It was all simple enough. Why make such a fuss about it? The main consideration was to get the Indian woman and her people out of the country with all speed, and that he could accomplish without much difficulty. When he had arrived at this satisfactory conclusion, however, he made the disturbing discovery that that vast sense of relief, that scorn of himself and of his childish terror, which had cheered him half an hour ago, had largely evaporated from his spirit, and once more the haunting dread of discovery was upon him. Once more he found himself visualising the accusing face, the steady, disquieting eye of his wife. Again he cursed himself for a fool. “Imagination! My damned imagination!” he muttered, as he smashed his way through the bushes. “Look here, this will not do,” he said aloud, coming to a dead stop. “I must get hold of myself.”