It would have been my duty, you know, and I might have
argued you were lying. But you can't lie to me--now. Kirkstone deserved
to die. And so I've made up my mind what you're going to do. You're not
going back to Coronation Gulf. You're going south. You're going back
into God's country again. And you're not going as John Keith, the
murderer, but as Derwent Conniston of His Majesty's Royal Northwest
Mounted Police! Do you get me, Keith? Do you understand?"
Keith simply stared. The Englishman twisted a mustache, a half-humorous
gleam in his eyes. He had been thinking of this plan of his for some
time, and he had foreseen just how it would take Keith off his feet.
"Quite a scheme, don't you think, old chap? I like you. I don't mind
saying I think a lot of you, and there isn't any reason on earth why
you shouldn't go on living in my shoes. There's no moral objection. No
one will miss me. I was the black sheep back in England--younger
brother and all that--and when I had to choose between Africa and
Canada, I chose Canada. An Englishman's pride is the biggest fool thing
on earth, Keith, and I suppose all of them over there think I'm dead.
They haven't heard from me in six or seven years.
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