"Yes, but the cabin--who lives in it?"

"A woman," was the answer, and the next moment Lon had rapped on the
door, and a woman's voice bade him enter.

"Have you seen Dave recently?" she asked.

"Nope," Lon answered carelessly. "I've been in the other direction, down
Circle City way. Dave's up Dawson way, ain't he?"

The woman nodded, and Lon fell to unharnessing the dogs, while I unlashed
the sled and carried the camp outfit into the cabin. The cabin was a
large, one-room affair, and the woman was evidently alone in it. She
pointed to the stove, where water was already boiling, and Lon set about
the preparation of supper, while I opened the fish-bag and fed the dogs.
I looked for Lon to introduce us, and was vexed that he did not, for they
were evidently old friends.

"You are Lon McFane, aren't you?" I heard her ask him. "Why, I remember
you now. The last time I saw you it was on a steamboat, wasn't it? I
remember . . . "

Her speech seemed suddenly to be frozen by the spectacle of dread which,
I knew, from the tenor I saw mounting in her eyes, must be on her inner
vision. To my astonishment, Lon was affected by her words and manner.
His face showed desperate, for all his voice sounded hearty and genial,
as he said--

"The last time we met was at Dawson, Queen's Jubilee, or Birthday, or