“Something I had hoped to be spared,” he said under his breath; more to himself than to me. Then he turned his eyes from the little window, drew up his knees till his fingers locked before them, and so sat hunched against the wall. Wholly absorbed in my letter-writing I had heard nothing out of the common. Now I distinguished voices, the deep tones of a man and following that the clear treble of a woman. During a brief interval of quiet she laughed, and after that I heard footsteps coming toward the row, out of which our cell faced. Presently the shadow of them darkened the little window in our door. The red coat of the guard passed. Barreau shifted uneasily. I, too, leaned forward listening to the light footfall drawing near, for I had a vivid recollection of that voice—or one that was its twin. It did not seem strange that she should be there; Benton is not so far from MacLeod in that land of great distances. And my recollection was not at fault. An instant later her small, elfish face bent to the opening and she peered in on us—as one who views caged beasts of the jungle. But there was none of the human fear of wild things in her attitude. “So,” she said coolly, tucking a lock of hair under the same ridiculous little cap she had worn on the _Moon_, “this is how the Northwest would have you, is it, Mr. Bar—Mr. Brown. Alas! ‘To what base uses we do return.’ I cannot say you have my sympathy.” “If that is the least cruel thing you can say,” Barreau flung back at her, putting his feet on the floor and resting his hands on the edge of his seat, “I thank you. But my trail is my own, and I have never yet asked you to follow in my stumbling footsteps.” She colored at that, and from where I sat I could see the Police guard lift his eyebrows inquiringly. But she had other shafts at hand. “I grant you that,” she replied quickly. “But it is a shock, when one conceives a man to be something of a _gentleman_; to have some remnant of the code honorable—then, pah! to find his name a by-word on the frontier. A murderer! Even descended to common theft and dealings in contraband whisky. You have a savory record in these parts, I find. How nicely this chamber fits you, Mr.—ah—what is the euphonious title? Slowfoot George. Ah, yes. Why the Slowfoot? By the tale of your successful elusion of the law I should imagine you exceeding fleet of foot.” It seemed to me unwomanly and uncalled for, that bitter, scornful speech; even granting the truth of it, which had not been established in my mind. But it had a tonic effect on Barreau. The hurt look faded from his face. His lips parted in the odd, half-scornful, half-amused smile that was always lurking about his mouth. He did not at once reply. When he did it was only a crisp sentence or two. “Let us be done with this,” he said. “There is neither pleasure nor profit in exchanging insults.”