* * *

Lorson Harris was a type common enough in outland places, where money is
easy and conscience does not exist. He was vulgar, he was brutal, he was
a sensualist in his desire for all that wealth could buy him. He was not
a man of education. Far from it. He was a clever, unscrupulous schemer,
a product of conditions--rough conditions.

He was a large, coarse man who had permitted his passions to gain the
upper hand in the control of his life, but they by no means interfered
with his capacity as the head of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation.

He overflowed a big armchair before his desk in the office of his great
store, and beamed a hard-breathing good-nature upon all those who seemed
likely to be useful in his multitudinous schemes. Just now the victim of
his smile was a man at the zenith of middle life. He was of medium
height, but of herculean muscle, and the fact was patent enough even
under the dense bulk of fur-lined buckskin clothing he was wearing.

There was no more sympathy in the two men's appearance than there was in
their condition of mind. While a passionate desire for the flesh-pots
enjoyed by other magnates of commerce, whose good fortune had provided
them with a happier hunting-ground than Seal Bay, was the primal motive
power of the trader, the man who had just come off the great white trail
was driven by a desire no less strong, but only selfish in that the
final achievement should be entirely his.

Just now the fur cap was removed from the visitor's head, and a tingeing
of grey was apparent in the shock of brown hair he had bared. A few
sharp lines scored his forehead and played about his clean-shaven mouth,
but the steady, serious eyes, with their strongly marked, even brows
were quite devoid of all sign of passing years. They accentuated the
impression of tremendous vigour and capacity his personality conveyed.

The smiling eyes of Lorson read all these things. It was his business to
read his visitors. He pushed the cigar box across the desk invitingly.

"They're some cigars, boy," he said complacently. "Try one."

The other shook his head.

"Don't use 'em, thanks. Maybe I'll try my pipe."

"Sure. Do. A horn of whisky--imported Scotch?"

The same definite shake of the head followed, but before the visitor
could pass a verbal negative the trader laughed.

"Nothing doing?" he said amiably. "Well, maybe you're right. You boys
need fit stomachs. Drink's a darn fool play