hotel register. He stood by her side and watched her write. It was a
firm sun-browned hand that held the pen, and she wrote in a rapid
business-like way. "Glen Weston" were the only words Reynolds saw
there as he wrote his own name a minute later below hers. She had not
even mentioned where she was from--that space was left blank. He also
noticed that the hotel clerk seemed to know who she was, for he was
more affable to her than to anyone else. She asked him if her father
had yet arrived, and she appeared disappointed when he answered in the
negative.

The name "Glen Weston" kept running through Reynolds' mind all that
evening. He liked it, and it suited her admirably, so he thought. But
who was she, and where was she going? That was what he wished to know.

The town of Whitehorse was of considerable interest to Reynolds as he
strolled that evening through its various streets. It was a surprise
to him as well, for he had not expected to find such a settled
community. He had imagined that all such towns in the north were wild
and almost lawless places, abounding in desperate characters, ready to
shoot on the slightest provocation. But here all was order, and it was
little different from one of the many small conventional towns in
Eastern Canada. There were several up-to-date stores, a large post
office, bank, churches, and comfortable dwelling houses, though many of
the latter were built of logs. The Royal Northwest Mounted Police had
their large barracks at the rear of the town under the brow of a high
hill, where all day long the flag of the clustered crosses floated from
its tall white staff in the centre of the square.

It was the time of year when the light of day reaches far into the
night, and deep darkness is unknown. The sun merely dips for a few