eturned to him, strongly. But those were strange things she had said
about Stefan and that message. As soon as possible he would go over to
Carcajou and interview his friend the Swede. The girl's disordered
mind must have distorted something that he said. He began to wonder
whether there was any truth at all about her story, whether she really
came from New York, whether she was not some poor creature escaped
from some place for the care of the insane. But then how had she got
hold of his name and how had she ever heard of Roaring River? The more
he puzzled over these problems the more tangled they appeared to be.

"I dare say I'll find out about it soon enough," he told himself,
impatiently, for the pain he suffered began to grow worse with every
step, and an unaccountable weariness had come over him. That thing on
his shoulder must be a mere scratch, he tried to persuade himself, in
spite of the sharp pangs it gave him. Manlike he grew more obstinate
as his strength began to fail, and pulled harder, with the sweat now
running down his clammy forehead and freezing on his face.

Maigan, also, was bending hard to his task, and they went along
steadily and rapidly. The toboggan was crackling and slithering
over the snow upon which the dark indigo shadows were throwing
uncanny designs. The track was smooth and level now and the dog could
manage very well alone, so that Hugo pulled no longer. Once, as he
chanced to stumble, the girl thought she heard a groan from him. She
began to wish that she had been able to believe him, but it was
utterly impossible, although she suddenly found it in her heart to
pity him, to extenuate the abomination of his conduct. Why that
last sacrilegious lie he had uttered? The man was suffering; it
looked as if the iron were entering his soul. Oh! the pity of it!
If he had only acknowledged his offence and begged her pardon she
might perhaps have forgiven. A moment later, however, the grim
outlook before her presented itself again. There were two things
for her to choose from; one was that fitly named Roaring River
along whose bank the road wound its snaky trail and the other
consisted in the cheap little pistol in her bag. Well, there might
be comfort after all in this wild land, upon the scented fallen
needles of the pines or under that pure white ice. Her features,
which for a moment had become stony and hard, now softened again.
It was best to endeavor to harbor no more thoughts of contempt