“M’seur, I have come to you with a warning.  Do not go to Le Pas.  Do not go to the big railroad camp on the Wekusko.  Return into the South.”  For an instant he leaned forward, his black eyes flashing, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.  “Perhaps you will understand,” he cried tensely, “when I tell you this warning is sent to you—­by the little Meleese!”

Before Howland could recover from his surprise Croisset had passed swiftly through the door.  The engineer called his name, but there came no response other than the rapidly retreating sound of the Northerner’s moccasined feet.  With a grumble of vexation he sank back on his pillows.  The fresh excitement had set his head in a whirl again and a feverish heat mounted into his face.  For a long time he lay with his eyes closed, trying to clear for himself the mystery of the preceding night.  The one thought which obsessed him was that he had been duped.  His lovely acquaintance of the preceding evening had ensnared him completely with her gentle smile and her winsome mouth, and he gritted his teeth grimly as he reflected how easy he had been.  Deliberately she had lured him into the ambush which would have proved fatal for him had it not been for Jean Croisset.  And she was not a mute!  He had heard her voice; when that death-grip was tightest about his throat there had come to him that terrified cry:  “Mon Dieu, you are killing him—­killing him!”

His breath came a little faster as he whispered the words to himself.  They appealed to him now with a significance which he had not understood at first.  He was sure that in that cry there had been real terror; almost, he fancied, as he lay with his eyes shut tight, that he could still hear the shrill note of despair in the voice.  The more he tried to reason the situation, the more inexplicable grew the mystery of it all.  If the girl had calmly led him into the ambush, why, in the last moment, when success seemed about to crown her duplicity, had she cried out in that agony of terror?  In Howland’s heated brain there came suddenly a vision of her as she stood beside him in the white trail; he felt again the thrill of her hands, the touch of her breast for a moment against his own; saw the gentle look that had come into her deep, pure eyes; the pathetic tremor of the lips which seemed bravely striving to speak to him.  Was it possible that face and eyes like those could have led him into a deathtrap!  Despite the evidence of what had happened he found himself filled with doubt.  And yet, after all, she had lied to him—­for she was not a mute!

He turned over with a groan and watched the door.  When Croisset returned he would insist on knowing more about the strange occurrence, for he was sure that the half-breed could clear away at least a part of the mystery.  Vainly, as he watched and waited, he racked his mind to find some reason for the murderous attack on himself.  Who was “the little Meleese,” whom Croisset declared had sent the warning?  So far as he could remember he had never known a person by that name.  And yet the half-breed had uttered it as though it would carry a vital meaning to him.  “Perhaps you will understand,” he had said, and Howland strove to understand, until his brain grew dizzy and a nauseous sickness overcame him.