fire, wondering what his aristocratic friends--and especially the girl
of the hyacinth letter--would say if they could see him and his
environment just at the present moment. In a slow, chuckling survey he
took in the heavy German socks which he had hung to dry close to the
fire; his worn shoe-packs, shining in a thick coat of caribou grease,
and his single suit of steaming underwear that he had washed after
supper, and which hung suspended from the ceiling, looking for all the
world, in the half dusk of the cabin, like a very thin and headless man.
In this gloom, indeed, but one thing shone out white and distinct--the
skull on the little shelf above the fire. As his eyes rested on it,
Steele's lips tightened and his face grew dark. With a sudden movement
he reached up and took it in his hands, holding it for a moment so that
the light from the fire flashed full upon it. In the left side, on a
line with the eyeless socket and above the ear, was a hole as large as a
small egg.

"So I'm ordered up to join Nome, the man who did this, eh?" he muttered,
fingering the ragged edge. "I could kill him for what happened down
there at Nelson House, M'sieur Janette. Some day--I may."

He balanced the skull on his finger tips, level with his chin.

"Nice sort of a chap for a Hamlet, I am," he went on, whimsically. "I
believe I'll chuck you into the fire, M'sieur Janette. You're getting on
my nerves."

He stopped suddenly and lowered the skull to the table.

"No, I won't burn you," he continued, "I've brought you this far and
I'll pack you up to Lac Bain with me. Some morning I'll give you to