chance
lay in a timely marriage with Chloe Elliston, and a quick dash for the
States. If the dash succeeded, he had nothing to fear. Even if it
failed, and he fell into the hands of the Mounted--with the Elliston
millions behind him, he felt he could snap his fingers in the face of the
law. Men of millions do not serve time.

For the men who awaited him in the Bastile du Mort, Lapierre gave no
thought. He would stand by them as long as it furthered his own ends to
stand by them. When they ceased to be a factor in his own safety, they
could shift for themselves, even as he, Lapierre, was shifting for
himself. Someone has said every man has his price. It is certain that
every man has his limit beyond which he may not go.

Lapierre, a man of consummate nerve, had put forth a final effort to save
himself. Had put forth the best effort that was in him to induce Chloe
Elliston to marry him. He had found the girl kinder, more receptive than
he had dared hope. His spirits arose to a point they had never before
attained. Success seemed within his grasp. Then, suddenly, just as his
fingers were about to close upon the prize--the prize that meant to him
life and plenty, instead of death--the Louchoux girl, a passing folly of
a bygone day, had suddenly risen up and confronted him--and he knew that
his cause was lost.

Lapierre had reached his limit of control, and when he turned at the
sound of the Indian girl's voice, his hand instinctively flew to his
belt. In his rage at the sudden turn of events, he became for the
instant a madman, whose one thought was to destroy her who had wrought
the harm. The next instant the snarl died upon his lips and his hand
dropped limply to his side. In two strides Big Lena was upon him and her
thick fingers bit deep into his shoulder as she spun him to face her--to
face the polished bit of the keen-edged ax which the huge woman
flourished carelessly within an inch of his nose.

The fingers released their grip, Lapierre's gun was jerked from its
holster, and a moment later thumped heavily upon the floor of the kitchen
fifteen feet away, while the woman pointed grimly toward the overturned
chair. Lapierre righted the chair, and as he sank into it, Chloe, who
had stared dumbfounded upon the scene, saw that little beads of sweat
stood out sharply against the pallor of his bloodless brow. As from a
great distance the words of the Louchoux girl fell upon her ears. She
was speaking