"And if you ever care for Alaska, you might tell your government to hang
a few such men as John Graham, sonny."

At the sound of that name Alan felt the blood in him run suddenly hot.
Only one man on the face of the earth did he hate with undying hatred,
and that man was John Graham. He would have followed, seeking the
identity of the stranger whose words had temporarily stunned the young
engineers, when he saw a slim figure standing between him and the light
of the smoking-room windows. It was Mary Standish. He knew by her
attitude that she had heard the words of the young engineer and the old
graybeard, but she was looking at _him_. And he could not remember that
he had ever seen quite that same look in a woman's face before. It was
not fright. It was more an expression of horror which comes from thought
and mental vision rather than physical things. Instantly it annoyed Alan
Holt. This was the second time she had betrayed a too susceptible
reaction in matters which did not concern her. So he said, speaking to
the silent young men a few steps away:

"He was mistaken, gentlemen. John Graham should not be hung. That would
be too merciful."

He resumed his way then, nodding at them as he passed. But he had
scarcely gone out of their vision when quick footsteps pattered behind
him, and the girl's hand touched his arm lightly.

"Mr. Holt, please--"

He stopped, sensing the fact that the soft pressure of her fingers was
not altogether unpleasant. She hesitated, and when she spoke again, only