re
all the time; that he made a great show with his cleverness among
the maidens, but would have none of them? And why would he not?
Truly, they were rare Indian maidens, and warm with love, but his
eyes were elsewhere. As the wolf looks upward, and wishes the
beautiful white moon, so did he look upward and desire the lovely
white daughter of the factor."

"What are you telling me, you devil?" shouted McTavish, his eyes
blazing.

The old Indian did not move, but bent slightly, as though expecting
a blow.

"I did not wish to tell you, Captain," he said, with dignity, "but
you forced me. Then, too, perhaps, it is just as well that you know
early rather than late. Perhaps, old Maria took the girl just for
spite of old Fitzpatrick. I hope that is the only reason."

"And yet--and yet--!" muttered Donald between clenched teeth. His
tongue refused to utter the foul alternative.

Silent, they moved out in the storm once more, and McTavish bent
to the work with a will. It was good to battle, to struggle with
the elements on this wild night; it was good to weary himself with
labor and to keep his mind alert with the changing exigencies of
every step. Else, he should be beside himself with fear and impotence.

In flashes, he pondered on what he had heard: the Indian woman's
fruitless visit to Fitzpatrick, her relationship to Charley Seguis,
her sudden abduction of Jean. There was something about these things
that presented to his understanding a wall of insurmountable height.
Then, he recalled his last interview with Jean and the suspicions
that had been cast upon himself, suspicions he had vainly endeavored
to fathom. What was in the wind, anyhow? he asked himself. There
seemed to be forces at work over which he had no control, forces
big with portent, heavy with menace. Like a towering thunder-cloud
that casts its sickly green over all about, so these unknown
influences were overshadowing all the lives around him.

There was but one thing to do. Probe matters to the bottom, force
the issues, and drive these disquieting rumors out of the country.
But how to accomplish this? There was but one answer to that question
in Donald's mind, and it was the answer of the man in primitive
surroundings thousands of years ago. He would marry Jean Fitzpatrick
out of hand, and then start asking questions. If she did not yet
love him, she would learn to; if her father did not like it, he
would have to make the best of matters. For the