Yet he could think of nothing. A
feeling of irritation swept over him, disgust at his own mental
impotency. And the dizzying sickness was brewing in his head
again.
"I have heard that name--somewhere--before," he said. There was a
space of only five or six feet between them, and he spoke with
studied distinctness.
"Possibly you have, m'sieu."
Her voice was exquisite, clear as the note of a bird, yet so soft
and low that she seemed scarcely to have spoken. And it was,
Carrigan thought, criminally evasive--under the circumstances. He
wanted her to turn round and say something. He wanted, first of
all, to ask her why she had tried to kill him. It was his right to
demand an explanation. And it was his duty to get her back to the
Landing, where the law would ask an accounting of her. She must
know that. There was only one way in which she could have learned
his name, and that was by prying into his identification papers
while he was unconscious. Therefore she not only knew his name,
but also that he was Sergeant Carrigan of the Royal Northwest
Mounted Police. In spite of all this she was apparently not very
deeply concerned. She was not frightened, and she did not appear
to be even slightly excited.
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