“JOE, I thought I heard the yelping of dogs. Did you hear anything?”

The Indian shook his head and Dick Bracknell sank back on his improvised couch of spruce, with a sigh.

“Of course,” he muttered, “I’m dreaming. No, by Jove! I’m not. There it is again. Don’t you hear it, Joe?” This time the Indian nodded and going to the door of the cabin looked down the creek. Three men and a dog sled were coming up the trail. He turned and informed Bracknell of the fact. A thoughtful frown came on the sick man’s face.

“Who can they be? Not Roger, certainly, for it is but two days since he was here, and he had but one man with him. Perhaps——” Then as a thought struck him he broke off and cried excitedly, “I say, Joe, does one of the men look at all like a prisoner?”

The Indian shook his head.

“That’s a pity,” commented his master. “I had a wild hope that Roger might have overtaken the man. Anyway we shall know who they are in a few minutes, and patience is a virtue that I’ve plenty of opportunity for practising just now.”

[200]

Laboriously he rose from his couch and seated himself near the fire. The effort brought on a fit of coughing, which was still shaking him, when a whipstock rapped upon the door. His servant opened it, and a white man entered, and stood for a moment watching Bracknell as he coughed and groaned. Then suddenly an alert look came in his face and for one instant into his eyes there came a flicker of recognition. He waited until the paroxysm had passed, then in a voice that had in it a note of sympathy he spoke—

“You seem in a bad way, friend.”

The voice of a cultured man, as Bracknell instantly noted, and as he wiped his eyes the sick man looked sharply at the new-comer.

“Yes,” he replied, “and so would you be if you’d had your lungs frozen.”

“Is it as bad as that?” asked the other in a voice that was still sympathetic.

“It is, and worse! I’ve got scurvy too. I suppose you haven’t such a thing as a potato with you?”

The stranger smiled. “As it happens I have. I never travel without in winter, because, as you seem to know, a raw potato is better than lime juice for scurvy, and a sight handier to carry. I shall be happy to oblige you.”

He went to the door of the cabin and called an order to the men outside. A few moments later an Indian entered bringing with him seven or eight potatoes. Bracknell instantly seized one, and taking out a clasp knife began to cut thin slices of the tuber, and to eat regardless of everything[201] but the one fact that here was salvation from one of the diseases which afflicted him. He chewed methodically, without speaking, and Adrian Rayner, for he was the arrival, watched him with curious eyes, reflecting on the irony of the situation which made the heir of an ancient estate glad to eat raw potato; for though he himself remained incognito, he had already recognized Dick Bracknell.

“I’d go slow if I were you,” he said warningly, as having finished one tuber, the sick man stretched his hand for another. “You had better not overdo it. A little every day is better than a glut; and, of course, my stock is limited.”

Dick Bracknell laughed weakly. “You’re right, of course. But if you knew what I suffer you’d understand the impulse to stuff oneself! I’ll go slow, as you advise, and perhaps I shall get quit of one disease at any rate, though the other will get rid of me as sure as a gun.”

“You think so?” asked Rayner, with an eager interest which Bracknell failed to note.

“Sure of it! I’ve seen other men this way—and there was always a funeral at the end of it; though not always a burial service. Parsons are scarce up here!”

“Have you been long in the country?” asked Rayner carelessly.

Bracknell looked at him sharply, as if suspicious of so simple a question, and then gave a short laugh. “I’ve been here a year or two. And you? You’re pretty new to the North, aren’t you?”

Rayner laughed. “A regular tenderfoot. I’ve[202] been here before, but only for a short spell, and this time I’m straight from England.”

“Is that so?” asked Bracknell, and appraised the stranger anew. “In the mining line, I suppose?”

“Nothing half so profitable,” answered Rayner smilingly. “I am merely representing a legal firm, and have come out on a rather curious mission, one with little profit in it in fact, and with even a possibility of loss.”

“That’s poor business for a lawyer,” said Bracknell encouragingly.

“It is,” agreed Rayner, “and it’s not only that, but it is about the queerest business that I ever struck.” He turned and addressed a remark to one of his men who had entered the cabin, and then resumed, “It is quite a romance in high life, and very interesting. Would you like to hear the story?”

“I was always fond of romance,” answered Bracknell with a laugh, “and as up here we’ve no penny dreadfuls, I shall be glad to have a slice of the real thing.”

“Oh, it’s real enough,” answered Rayner, “and it’s interesting, because it has a rich and young and beautiful girl for the heroine.”

“Romance always must have!” commented Bracknell. “Your story, I can see, is going on the penny plain and twopenny coloured line!”

“Not quite. It has deviations and some original features. This girl’s father was immensely rich, and whilst he remained in this country looking after his mining properties, he sent his daughter to England to be educated. There she ran against[203] the heir of an old Westmorland family, and married him secretly—”

He broke off as his host rose unexpectedly to his feet. “What is the matter?” he asked innocently. “Are you not feeling well?”

“Just a spasm,” growled Bracknell. “It will pass in a minute. Get on with your tale.”

The other smiled a little to himself, and resumed his narrative. “As I was saying, she married this young gentleman secretly, and immediately after the marriage separated from him for some reason, and at the same time something else happened, which compelled her husband to leave England and to reside abroad.... Did you say something?”

“No! It’s only this confounded wheeze of mine!”

“About the same time news reached England that the girl’s father had died in an accident out here, and as by the terms of his will the daughter was to reside for three years in the home he had built in the woods here, she returned to the Dominion without having said anything about the marriage to her uncle and guardian, the well-known solicitor Sir Joseph Rayner, of whom you perhaps have heard?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him! Go on, man. Your story is very interesting.”

“Fortunately Sir Joseph was not left in ignorance of the marriage, for the girl’s husband wrote and informed him of it. Sir Joseph was astonished; but he kept the news to himself, because the husband, though of good family, had done something that was—er—scarcely creditable. He did[204] not even inform the girl of the information which had reached him, hoping that time would solve what appeared to be a difficult situation.”

“And hasn’t it?”

“No, sir. Time may solve many things, but the policy of laissez-faire, whilst sometimes a good one, is not without its dangers! This happens to be one of the cases where the dangers predominate, and time has but brought a new complication.”

“What is that?” asked Bracknell sharply.

“Well, the girl is thinking of marrying again.”

“God in heaven!” Dick Bracknell had staggered to his feet. His eyes were burning and there was a ghastly pallor on his haggard face. He glared at the narrator as if he could slay him. “Man, do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes,” answered Rayner, with well-affected surprise. “I am saying that in her inexp............