"Do--do you really believe such a thing?" answered the man, wincing again. "You speak of something that is an abomination, that would stink in a decent man's nostrils. And--and you speak of shame! Do you think such a word could express all that a man would be overwhelmed with if he had done such a thing? Great Heavens! Miss Nelson, a man having once committed such a crime would be humiliated for the rest of his life, it seems to me. It would be an unpardonable sin for which there could be no forgiveness, none surely on the part of the woman, and none that the man could ever grant himself. It--it surely isn't possible that any such thing has occurred, that any man could so lower himself beneath all the dirt that his feet have ever trodden." He spoke strongly, his face now also high in color, his voice tremulous and indignant, his hard right fist clenched till the arm vibrated with the strain. Madge looked at him again. For a moment his tone had been convincing and she had nearly believed that he spoke the truth. But the evidence against him was too strong. "That--that big Stefan, your friend, the man who says that you saved his life, knew that I was coming," she faltered, her voice shaking while her body felt limp with the infinite discouragement that had returned to her in full. "He brought you my message, at least he told me so. What--what is the use of my saying anything more? I--I think we might as well be going on, if--if you and your dog are rested. He--he looks like a decent fellow, Maigan does. There are things a dog wouldn't do, I'm sure." "Miss Nelson, as God is my judge, I'm guiltless in this matter," the man's voice rang out. "Go on, Maigan, mush on!" he called, and leaned forward on the rope, passed over one shoulder. Her last words had brought a moment of anger and indignation. Save for the few words he had uttered he felt it useless to protest his innocence, and the notion of her insanity returned to him, strongly. But those were strange things she had said about Stefan and that message. As soon as possible he would go over to Carcajou and interview his friend the Swede. The girl's disordered mind must have distorted something that he said. He began to wonder whether there was any truth at all about her story, whether she really came from New York, whether she was not some poor creature escaped from some place for the care of the insane. But then how had she got hold of his name and how had she ever heard of Roaring River? The more he puzzled over these problems the more tangled they appeared to be.