restless stir of unseen
wings; the patter of diminutive feet. A wooded point that formed the horn
of a bay was etched in black on the silver lake; then suddenly the moon
illumined the horizon and, rising over a stencilled crest of the Cascades,
stretched her golden path to the shore below them. Both these men,
watching it, saw that other trail reaching white, limitless, hard as steel
through the Alaska solitudes.

"At Seward," said Foster at last, "you received orders by cable detailing
you to a season in the Matanuska fields; but before you took your party
in, you sent a force of men back to the Aurora to finish Weatherbee's work
and begin operations. And the diverting of that stream exposed gravels
that are going to make you rich. You deserve it. I grant that. It's your
compensation; but just the same it gives a sharper edge to poor
Weatherbee's luck."

Tisdale swung around. "See here, Foster, I want you to know I should have
considered that money as a loan if David had lived. If he had lived--and
recovered--I should have made him take back that half interest in the
Aurora. You've got to believe that; and I would be ready to do as much for
his wife, if she had treated him differently. But she wrecked his life. I
hold her responsible."

Foster was silent.

"Think of it!" Hollis went on. "The shame of it! All those years while he
faced privation, the worst kind, tramping Alaska trails, panning in icy
streams, sluicing, digging sometimes like any common laborer, wintering in
shacks, she was living in luxury down here. He never made a promising
discovery that he wasn't forced to sell. She spent his money faster than
he made it; kept him handicapped. And all she ever gave him was a friendly
letter now and then, full of herself and the gay life she led, and showing
clearly how happy she could be without him. Think of it, Foster!" His
voice deepened and caught its vibrant quality. "A fine fellow like
Weatherbee; so reliable, so great in a hard place. How could she have
treated him as she did? Damn it! How could he have thrown himself away
like that, for a feather-headed woman?"

Foster knocked the ash from the end of his cigar. "You don't know her," he
answered. "If you did, you wouldn't put it in that way." He smiled a
little and looked off at the golden path on the lake. "So," he said after
a moment, and his glance returned to meet Tisdale's squarely, "she has
absolutely nothing now but that tract of unimproved desert