" Sylvie's heart
contracted in her breast.
"Well, sir," laughed Pete, in his most boyish, light-hearted fashion,
"that sounds interesting. But it's a new name to me."
"It's an old case, however," said the man, the man who spoke more
like an Easterner than the sheriff. "Fifteen years old! They've dug
it up again back East. The daughter of the man that was killed came
into some money and thinks she can't spend it any better than in
hunting down her father's murderer. Now, we've traced Rutherford to
this country, and pretty close to this spot. He made a getaway before
trial, and he came out here fifteen years ago. About two years later
he sent back East for his kid brother--he'd be about your age now,
Mr.--what you say your name was?--Garth, Peter Garth. You'll have
to excuse the sheriff; he's bound to search your place." Sylvie had
heard the footsteps going through the three rooms. "A woman named
Bertha Scrane, a distant cousin of Rutherford's to whom he'd been
kind, brought the child out. Now, Missis--what's your name?"
"Bella Garth," she said tranquilly. "I came out here with my husband,
who died six years ago. He's buried out there under the snow. I've
lived here with my son and my son's wife.
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