believed that she had measured up Blake pretty well. It was a case in
which her woman's intuition had failed her miserably. She was amazed that
such a man had marooned himself voluntarily on the arctic coast. She did
not, of course, understand his business--entirely. She thought him simply
a trader. And he was unlike any man aboard ship. By his carefully clipped
beard, his calm, cold manner of speech, and the unusual correctness with
which he used his words she was convinced that at some time or another he
had been part of what she mentally thought of as "an entirely different
environment."

She was right. There was a time when London and New York would have given
much to lay their hands on the man who now called himself Blake.

Dolores, excited by the conviction that Blake would help her when he
heard her story, still did not lose her caution. Rydal had given her
another twenty-four hours, and that was all. In those twenty-four hours
she must fight out their salvation, her own and Peter's. If Blake should
fail--

Fifty paces from his cabin she stopped, slipped the big fur mitten from
her right hand and unbuttoned her coat so that she could quickly and
easily reach an inside pocket in which was Peter's revolver. She smiled
just a bit grimly, as her fingers touched the cold steel. It was to be
her last resort. And she was thinking in that flash of the days "back
home" when she was counted the best revolver shot at the Piping Rock. She
could beat Peter, and Peter was good. Her fingers twined a bit fondly
about the pearl-handled thing in her pocket. The last resort--and from
the first it had given her courage to keep the truth from Peter!

She knocked at the heavy door of the igloo cabin. Blake was still up, and