s in deprecation of his failure to discover
this amazing fact in his association with Mary Standish.

"It beats the devil!" he exclaimed suddenly.

"It does," agreed Alan.

Cold, hard reason began to shoulder itself inevitably against the
happiness that possessed him, and questions which he had found no
interest in asking when aboard ship leaped upon him with compelling
force. Why was it so tragically important to Mary Standish that the
world should believe her dead? What was it that had driven her to appeal
to him and afterward to jump into the sea? What was her mysterious
association with Rossland, an agent of Alaska's deadliest enemy, John
Graham--the one man upon whom he had sworn vengeance if opportunity ever
came his way? Over him, clubbing other emotions with its insistence,
rode a demand for explanations which it was impossible for him to make.
Stampede saw the tense lines in his face and remained silent in the
lengthening twilight, while Alan's mind struggled to bring coherence and
reason out of a tidal wave of mystery and doubt. Why had she come to
_his_ cabin aboard the _Nome_? Why had she played him with such
conspicuous intent against Rossland, and why--in the end--had she
preceded him to his home in the tundras? It was this question which
persisted, never for an instant swept aside by the others. She had not
come because of love for him. In a brutal sort of way he had proved
that, for when he had taken her in his arms, he had seen distress and
fear and a flash of horror in her face. Another and more mysterious
force had driven her.

The joy in him was a living flame even as this realization pressed upon
him. He was like a man who had found life after a period of something
that was worse than death, and with his happiness he felt himself
twisted upon an upheaval of conflicting sensations and half convictions
out of which, in spite of his effort to hold it back, suspicion began to
creep like a shadow. But it was not the sort of suspicion to cool the
thrill in his blood or frighten him, for he was quite ready to concede
that Mary Standish was a fugitive, and that her flight from Seattle had
been in the face of a desperate necessity. What had happened aboard ship
was further proof, and her presence at his range a final one. Forces had
driven her which it had been impossible for her to combat, and in
desperation she had come to him for refuge. She had chosen him out of
all the world to help her; she believe