t
she did not, in fact, and if she had cared, did Bennett think for an
instant that she--of all women--would have confessed the fact, confessed
it to him, Bennett's most intimate friend? Ferriss had known Lloyd well
for a long time, had at last come to love her. But could he himself tell
whether or no Lloyd cared for him? No, he could not, certainly he could
not.

Meanwhile Bennett was waiting for his answer. Ferriss's mind was all
confused. He could no longer distinguish right from wrong. If the lie
would make Bennett happier in this last hour of his life, why not tell
the lie?

"Yes," answered Ferriss, "she did say something once."

"She did?"

"Yes," continued Ferriss slowly, trying to invent the most plausible
lie. "We had been speaking of the expedition and of you. I don't know
how the subject was brought up, but it came in very naturally at length.
She said--yes, I recall it. She said: 'You must bring him back to me.
Remember he is everything to me--everything in the world.'"

"She--" Bennett cleared his throat, then tugged at his mustache; "she
said that?"

Ferriss nodded.

"Ah!" said Bennett with a quick breath, then he added: "I'm glad of
that; you haven't any idea how glad I am, Dick--in spite of everything."

"Oh, yes, I guess I have," murmured Ferriss.

"No, no, indeed, you haven't," returned the other. "One has to love a
woman like that, Dick, and have her--and find out--and have things come
right, to appreciate it. She would have been my wife after all. I don't
know how to thank you, Dick. Congratulate me."

He rose, holding out his hand; Ferriss feebly rose, too, and
instinctively extended his arm, but withdrew it suddenly. Bennett paused
abruptly, letting his hand fall to his side, and the two men remained
there an instant, looking at the stumps of Ferriss's arms, the tin spoon
still lashed to the right wrist.

A few hours later Bennett noted that the gale had begun perceptibly to
abate. By afternoon he was sure that the storm would be over. As he
turned to re-enter the tent after reading the wind-gauge he noted that
Kamiska, their one remaining dog, had come back, and was sitting on a
projection of ice a little distance away, uncertain as to her reception
after her absence. Bennett was persuaded that Kamiska had not run away.
Of all the Ostiaks she had been the most faithful. Bennett chose to
believe that she had wandered from the tent and had lost herself in the
blinding snow. But here w