They went on through the golden morning, the earth damp under their feet, the air filled with its sweet incense, on past scattered clumps of balsams and cedars until they came to the river and looked down on its yellow sand-bars glistening in the sun.  The town was hidden.  They heard no sound from it.  And looking up the great Saskatchewan, the river of mystery, of romance, of glamour, they saw before them, where the spruce walls seemed to meet, the wide-open door through which they might pass into the western land beyond.  Keith pointed it out.  And he pointed out the yellow bars, the glistening shores of sand, and told her how even as far as this, a thousand miles by river-those sands brought gold with them from the mountains, the gold whose treasure-house no man had ever found, and which must be hidden up there somewhere near the river’s end.  His dream, like Duggan’s, had been to find it.  Now they would search for it together.

Slowly he was picking his way so that at last they came to the bit of cleared timber in which was his old home.  His heart choked him as they drew near.  There was an uncomfortable tightness in his breath.  The timber was no longer “clear.”  In four years younger generations of life had sprung up among the trees, and the place was jungle-ridden.  They were within a few yards of the house before Mary Josephine saw it, and then she stopped suddenly with a little gasp.  For this that she faced was not desertion, was not mere neglect.  It was tragedy.  She saw in an instant that there was no life in this place, and yet it stood as if tenanted.  It was a log chateau with a great, red chimney rising at one end curtains and shades still hung at the windows.  There were three chairs on the broad veranda that looked riverward.  But two of the windows were broken, and the chairs were falling into ruin.  There was no life.  They were facing only the ghosts of life.

A swift glance into Keith’s face told her this was so.  His lips were set tight.  There was a strange look in his face.  Hand in hand they had come up, and her fingers pressed his tighter now.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It is John Keith’s home as he left it four years ago,” he replied.

The suspicious break in his voice drew her eyes from the chateau to his own again.  She could see him fighting.  There was a twitching in his throat.  His hand was gripping hers until it hurt.

“John Keith?” she whispered softly.

“Yes, John Keith.”

She inclined her head so that it rested lightly and affectionately against his arm.

“You must have thought a great deal of him, Derry.”

“Yes.”

He freed her hand, and his fists clenched convulsively.  She could feel the cording of the muscles in his arm, his face was white, and in his eyes was a fixed stare that startled her.  He fumbled in a pocket and drew out a key.

“I promised, when he died, that I would go in and take a last look for him,” he said.  “He loved this place.  Do you want to go with me?”

She drew a deep breath.  “Yes.”

The key opened the door that entered on the veranda.  As it swung back, grating on its rusty hinges, they found themselves facing the chill of a cold and lifeless air.  Keith stepped inside.  A glance told him that nothing was changed-everything was there in that room with the big fireplace, even as he had left it the night he set out to force justice from Judge Kirkstone.  One thing startled him.  On the dust-covered table was a bowl and a spoon.  He remembered vividly how he had eaten his supper that night of bread and milk.  It was the littleness of the thing, the simplicity of it, that shocked him.  The bowl and spoon were still there after four years.  He did not reflect that they were as imperishable as all the other things about; the miracle was that they were there on the table, as though he had used them only yesterday.  The most trivial things in the room struck him deepest, and he found himself fighting hard, for a moment, to keep his nerve.

“He told me about the bowl and the spoon, John Keith did,” he said, nodding toward them.  “He told me just what I’d find here, even to that.  You see, he loved the place greatly and everything that was in it.  It was impossible for him to forget even the bowl and the spoon and where he had left them.”

It was easier after that.  The old home was whispering back its memories to him, and he told them to Mary Josephine as they went slowly from room to room, until John Keith was living there before her again, the John Keith whom Derwent Conniston had run to his death.  It was this thing that gripped her, and at last what was in her mind found voice.

“It wasn’t you who made him die, was it, Derry?  It wasn’t you?”

“No.  It was the law.  He died, as I told you, of a frosted lung.  At the last I would have shared my life with him had it been possible.  McDowell must never know that.  You must never speak of John Keith before him.”

“I-I understand, Derry.”

“And he must not know that we came here.  To him John Keith was a murderer whom it was his duty to hang.”

She was looking at him strangely.  Never had he seen her look at him in that way.

“Derry,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“Derry, is John Keith alive?”

He started.  The shock of the question was in his face.  He caught himself, but it was too late.  And in an instant her hand was at his mouth, and she was whispering eagerly, almost fiercely: 

“No, no, no-don’t answer me, Derry!  Don’t answer me!  I know, and I understand, and I’m glad, glad, glad!  He’s alive, and it was you who let him live, the big, glorious brother I’m proud of!  And everyone else thinks he’s dead.  But don’t answer me, Derry, don’t answer me!”

She was trembling against him.  His arms closed about her, and he held her nearer to his heart, and longer, than he had ever held her before.  He kissed her hair many times, and her lips once, and up about his neck her arms twined softly, and a great brightness was in her eyes.

“I understand,” she whispered again.  “I understand.”

“And I-I must answer you,” he said.  “I must answer you, because I love you, and because you must know.  Yes, John Keith is alive!”