tand the
something about her which made him interested in spite of himself. Then
he smiled and there was a sudden glitter in his eyes.

"Did you ever see a dog fight?" he asked.

She hesitated, as if trying to remember, and shuddered slightly. "Once."

"What happened?"

"It was my dog--a little dog. His throat was torn--"

He nodded. "Exactly. And that is just what John Graham is doing to
Alaska, Miss Standish. He's the dog--a monster. Imagine a man with a
colossal financial power behind him, setting out to strip the wealth
from a new land and enslave it to his own desires and political
ambitions. That is what John Graham is doing from his money-throne down
there in the States. It's the financial support he represents, curse
him! Money--and a man without conscience. A man who would starve
thousands or millions to achieve his ends. A man who, in every sense of
the word, is a murderer--"

The sharpness of her cry stopped him. If possible, her face had gone
whiter, and he saw her hands clutched suddenly at her breast. And the
look in her eyes brought the old, cynical twist back to his lips.

"There, I've hurt your puritanism again, Miss Standish," he said, bowing
a little. "In order to appeal to your finer sensibilities I suppose I
must apologize for swearing and calling another man a murderer. Well, I
do. And now--if you care to stroll about the ship--"

From a respectful distance the three young engineers watched Alan and
Mary Standish as they walked forward.

"A corking pretty girl," said one of them, drawing a deep breath. "I
never saw such hair and eyes--"

"I'm at the same table with them," interrupted another. "I'm second on
her left, and she hasn't spoken three words to me. And that fellow she
is with is like an icicle out of Labrador."

And Mary Standish was saying: "Do you know, Mr. Holt, I envy those young
engineers. I wish I were a man."

"I wish you were," agreed Alan amiably.

Whereupon Mary Standish's pretty mouth lost its softness for an instant.
But Alan did not observe this. He was enjoying his cigar and the
sweet air.

CHAPTER III

Alan Holt was a man whom other men looked at twice. With women it was
different. He was, in no solitary sense of the word, a woman's man. He
admired them in an abstract way, and he was ready to fight for them, or
die for them, at any time such a course became necessary. But his
sentiment was entirely a matter of common sense. His chivalry was born
and b