e robes out with him and walked back to the McRae storehouse. It
adjoined the large log cabin where the Scotchman and his family lived.

Blandoine and he went over the robes carefully in order that there
should be no mistake as to which ones the trainmaster took. This done,
Morse locked the door and handed the key to his companion.

To him there was borne the sound of voices--one low and deep, the
other swift and high. He caught no words, but he became aware that a
queer excitement tingled through his veins. At the roots of his hair
there was an odd, prickling sensation. He could give himself no
reason, but some instinct of danger rang in him like a bell. The low
bass and the light high treble--they reached him alternately, cutting
into each other, overriding each other, clashing in agitated dissent.

Then--a shrill scream for help!

Morse could never afterward remember opening the door of the log
house. It seemed to him that he burst through it like a battering-ram,
took the kitchen in two strides, and hurled himself against the sturdy
home-made door which led into the living-room.

This checked him, for some one had slid into its socket the bar used
as a bolt. He looked around the kitchen and found in one swift glance
what he wanted. It was a large back log for the fireplace.

With this held at full length under his arm he crashed forward. The
wood splintered. He charged again, incited by a second call for
succor. This time his attack dashed the bolt and socket from their
place. Morse stumbled into the room like a drunken man.

CHAPTER XVII

A BOARD CREAKS

After Morse had closed the door, Jessie listened until the crisp
crunch of his footsteps had died away. She subdued an impulse to call
him back and put into words her quarrel against him.

From the table she picked up a gun-cover of moose leather she was
making and moved to the fireplace. Automatically her fingers fitted
into place a fringe of red cloth. (This had been cut from an old
petticoat, but the source of the decoration would remain a secret, not
on any account to be made known to him who was to receive the gift.)
Usually her hands were busy ones, but now they fell away from the work
listlessly.

The pine logs crackled, lighting one end of the room and filling the
air with aromatic pungency. As she gazed into the red coals her mind
was active.

She knew that her scorn of the fur-trader was a fraud. Into her hatred
of him she threw an