"His name isn't French at all, Madam; it's Fraser--'Fingerless' Fraser.
He's an utterly worthless rogue, and absolutely unreliable so far as I can
learn. I picked him up on the ice in Norton Sound, with a marshal at his
heels."

"That marshal wasn't after me," stoutly denied Fraser, quite unabashed.
"Why, he's a friend of mine--we're regular chums--everybody knows that. He
wanted to give me some papers to take outside, that's all."

Boyd shrugged his shoulders indifferently:

"Warrants!"

"Not at all! Not at all!" airily.

Their hostess, greatly amused at this remarkable turn of the ceremony,
prevented any further argument by saying:

"Well, French or Fraser, whichever it is, you are both welcome. However, I
should prefer to think of you as a runaway rather than as an intimate
friend of the marshal at Nome; I happen to know him."

"Well, we ain't what you'd exactly call pals," Fraser hastily disclaimed.
"I just sort of bow to him"--he gave an imitation of a slight, indifferent
headshake--"that way!"

"I see," commented their hostess, quizzically; then recalling herself, she
continued: "I should have made myself known before; I am Miss Malotte."

"Ch--" began the crook, then shut his lips abruptly, darting a shrewd