"The canoe wouldn't have been any use," he interrupted brusquely. "It would have upset if I had tried to get you out of the water into it."

"Then you swam for me?" persisted the girl. "Had to," he answered carelessly. "Couldn't you drown before my eyes even if I am a con

let vict!"

Helen Yardely flushed a little.

"I do not think

you need mention that again. I am very grateful to a brave man."

"Oh, as to that" he began; but she interrupted him.

"Tell me where you got me? I remember nothing about it."

He looked down the river.

"As near as I can tell you, it was by that clump of firs there; though I was not able to land for quite a long distance beyond. You were unconscious, and I carried you along the opposite bank, then swam across for my canoe and ferried you over. There you have the whole story." He broke off sharply, then before she could offer comment he spoke again: "I think it would be as well if you could have a change of clothes. It is not cold, but to let those you have dry on you might bring on all sorts of ills. There are some things of mine in the tent. I will put them handy, and you can slip them on whilst I take a stroll. You can then dry your own outfit."

He did not wait for any reply, but walked to the little fly-tent, and three or four minutes later emerged, puffing a pipe. He waved towards the tent, and turning away began to walk rapidly up

river. Helen Yardely sat where she was for a moment looking after him. There was a very thoughtful expression on her face.

"The whole story!" she murmured as she rose to her feet. "I wonder?

That man may have

been a convict; but he is no braggart."

She walked to the tent, and with amused eyes looked at the articles of attire obviously arranged for her inspection. A grey flannel shirt, a leather belt, a pair of Bedford cord breeches, a pair of moccasins, miles too large for her, and a mackinaw jacket a little the worse for wear.

She broke into sudden laughter as she considered them, and after a moment went to the tent-door and shyly looked up the river. The figure of her rescuer was still receding at a rapid rate. She nodded to herself, and then dropping the flap of the tent, faced the problem of the unaccustomed garments.

T

CHAPTER VI

A MYSTERIOUS SHOT

WENTY minutes later, as Hubert Stane returned along the river bank, he saw the girl emerge from the tent, and begin to arrange her own sodden attire where the heat of the fire would dry it. The girl completed her task just as he arrived at the camp, and stood upright, the rich blood running in her face. Then a flash of laughter came in her grey eyes.

"Well?" she asked, challenging his gaze.

"You make a very proper man," he answered, laughing.

"And I am as hungry as two!" she retorted. "I have eaten nothing for many hours. I wonder if

"What a fool I am," he broke in brusquely. “I never thought of that. I will do what I can at

Without further delay he began to prepare a meal, heating an already roasted partridge on a spit, and making coffee, which, with biscuit he set before her. "It is not exactly a Savoy supper, but

'It will be better," she broke in gaily, “for I was never so hungry in my life."

"Then eat! There are one or two little things

I want to attend to, if you will excuse me.' Certainly," she replied laughingly. "It will be less embarrassing if there is no witness of my gluttony."

Stane once more left the camp, taking with him a hatchet, and presently returned dragging with him branches of young spruce with which he formed a bed a little way from the tent, and within the radius of the heat from the fire. On this he threw a blanket, and his preparation for the night completed, turned to the girl once more.

"I never enjoyed a meal so much in my life,” she declared, as she lifted the tin plate from her lap. "And this coffee is delicious. Won't you have some, Mr. Stane?"

"Thank you, Miss a Miss"

Yardely is my name," she said quickly, "Helen Yardely." He took the coffee as she handed it to him in an enamelled mug, then he said: "How did you come to be adrift, Miss Yardely?"

As he asked the question a thoughtful look came on the girl's beautiful face.

"I was making a little trip by myself," she said slowly, to see a beaver dam in a creek a little below our encampment, and some one shot at me!" "Shot at you!" Stane stared at her in amazement as he gave the exclamation.

"Yes, twice! The second shot broke my paddle, and as I had no spare one, and as I cannot swim, I could do nothing but drift with the current."

"But who can have done such a thing?" cried the young man.

"I have not the slightest idea, unless it was some wandering Indian, but I am quite sure it was not an accident. I saw the first shot strike the water close to the canoe. It came from some woods on the left bank, and I cried out to warn the shooter whom I could not see. It was about four minutes after when the second shot was fired, and the bullet hit the shaft of the paddle, so that it broke on my next stroke, and I was left at the mercy of the river."

"And no more shots were fired?"

"None!"

Stane sat there with a very thoughtful look upon his face; and after a moment Miss Yardely spoke again.

What do you think, Mr. Stane?"

He shook his head. "I do not know what to think, Miss Yardely," he said slowly, "but it looks as if the thing had been done deliberately.”

"You mean that some one tried to kill me?"

"No, not that," was the reply. "You would offer too fair a mark for any one accustomed to handling a rifle to miss. I mean that there was a deliberate attempt to set you adrift in the canoe. The first shot, you say, struck the water near you, the second smashed your paddle, and after that there was no more firing. Why? The only answer is that the shooter had accomplished his object."

"It certainly has that appearance," answered the girl. "But why should any one do a thing like that?"