Broffin produced another envelope. It had been through the mails and bore the Duluth postmark. "Affidavits was the best we could do there," he said. "My man worked it to go with MacFarland as the driver of the rig. They saw some mighty fine timber, but it happened to be on the wrong side of the St. Louis County line. He's a tolerably careful man, and he verified the landmarks." "Affidavits will do," was the even-toned rejoinder. Then: "These papers are all in duplicate?" "Everything in pairs--just as you ordered." Miss Grierson took an embroidered chamois-skin money-book from her bosom and began to open it. Broffin raised his hand. "Not any more," he objected. "You overpaid me that first evening in front of the Winnebago." "You needn't hesitate," she urged. "It's my own money." "I've had a-plenty." "Enough so that we can call it square?" "Yes, and more than enough." "Then I can only thank you," she said, rising. He knew that he was being dismissed, but the one chance in a thousand had yet to be tested. "Just a minute, Miss Grierson," he begged. "I've done you right in this business, haven't I?" "You have." "I said I didn't want any more money, and I don't. But there's one other thing. Do you know what I'm here in this little jay town of yours for?" "Yes; I have known it for a long time." "I thought so. You knew it that day out at the De Soto, when you was tellin' Mr. Raymer a little story that was partly true and partly made up--what?" "And when you were sitting behind the window curtains listening," she laughed. "Yes; I knew it then. What about it?" "I've been wonderin' as I set here, if there was anything on the top side of God's green earth that'd persuade you to tell me how much o' that story was made up." She was smiling deliciously when she said: "You are from the South, Mr. Broffin, and I didn't suppose a Southerner could be so unchivalrous as to suspect a lady of fibbing." He shook his head. "I wish you'd tell me, Miss Grierson. I'm in pretty bad on this thing, and if----" "I can tell you what to do, if that will help you." "It might," he allowed. "Go away and take some other commission. It's a cold trail, Mr. Broffin." "But you won't say that Griswold isn't the man?" "It is not for me to say. But Miss Farnham says he isn't, and Mr. Galbraith--you tried him, didn't you? What more do you want?" "I want _you_ to say he isn't; then I'll go away." "You may put me in jail for contempt of court, if you like," she jested. "I refuse to testify. But I will tell you what you asked to know--if that will do any good. Every word of the story about Mr. Griswold--the story that you overheard, you know--was true; every single word of it. Do you suppose I should have dared to embroider it the least little bit--with you sitting right there at my back?" "But you did think for a while that he might be the man--what?" "Yes; I did think so--for a while."