almost convulsively on the butt of his heavy revolver.

"Ned Trent," he cried, harshly, at last, "pay attention to me. I've
had enough of this. I swear if you do not tell me what I want to know
within five minutes, I'll hang you to-day!"

The young man spun on his heel.

"Hanging!" he cried. "You cannot mean that?"

The Free Trader measured him up and down, saw that his purpose was
sincere, and turned slowly pale under the bronze of his out-of-door
tan. Hanging is always a dreadful death, but in the Far North it
carries an extra stigma of ignominy with it, inasmuch as it is
resorted to only with the basest malefactors. Shooting is the usual
form of execution for all but the most despicable crimes. He turned
away with a little gesture.

"Well!" cried Albret.

Ned Trent locked his lips in a purposeful straight line of silence. To
such an outrage there could be nothing to say. The Factor jerked his
watch to the table.

"I said five minutes," he repeated. "I mean it."

[Illustration: "GO TO THE DEVIL!" Scene from the play.]

The young man leaned against the side of the window, his arms folded,
his back to the room. Outside, the varied life of the Post went