may be up to some more mischief."

Although Reynolds was much interested in the scenery and in listening
to the philosophy of the old prospector, yet his mind turned
continually to Glen, for it was by that name he now thought of her. He
knew that she was on the train, for he had seen her as she stepped
aboard but a few minutes before it left the coast. She had passed
close to where he was standing, carrying a grip in her hand. He had
caught sight of the leather tag fastened to the handle of the grip, and
had strained his eyes in a futile effort to read the name written
thereon. He was determined in some manner to find out what that name
was, as he feared lest he should lose her altogether when the journey
by rail was ended. He must have something more definite than the one
word Glen.

This opportunity was afforded him when he entered the principal hotel
of the little town of Whitehorse at the terminus of the railway. It
was just across the street from the station, and when he arrived at the
office she was there before him, and about to enter her name in the
hotel register. He stood by her side and watched her write. It was a
firm sun-browned hand that held the pen, and she wrote in a rapid
business-like way. "Glen Weston" were the only words Reynolds saw
there as he wrote his own name a minute later below hers. She had not
even mentioned where she was from--that space was left blank. He also
noticed that the hotel clerk seemed to know who she was, for he was
more affable to her than to anyone else. She asked him if her father
had yet arrived, and she appeared disappointed when he answered in the
negative.

The name "Glen Weston" kept running through Reynolds' mind all that
evening. He liked it, and it suited her admirably, so he thought. But
who was she, and where was she going? That was what he wished to know.

The town of Whitehorse was of considerable interest to Reynolds as he
strolled that evening through its various streets. It was a surprise
to him as well, for he had not expected to find such a settled
community. He had imagined that all such towns in the north were wild
and almost lawless places, abounding in desperate characters, ready to
shoot on the slightest provocation. But here all was order, and it was
little different from one of the many small conventional towns in
Eastern Canada. There were several up-to-date stores, a large post
office, bank, churches, and comfortable dwelling