Bull observed her closely.  She was so amazingly and completely charming.  She was no longer clad in the rough, warm garments of the trail.  Even the cotton overall she used in the work of the house had been removed.  Now a dainty frock, that had no relation to the rigours of Labrador, displayed the delicate beauty of her figure, and perfectly harmonised with the colouring of her wonderful hair.  Somehow it seemed to the man her beauty had intensified in its appeal since the day of her supreme confidence in the cause for which she had so devotedly fought.

“A favour?” he laughed.  “Why, I’m just glad.”

Even while he spoke Bull remembered his talk with Bat Harker when he had listened to a wealth of pitying comment upon the feelings and opinions he had then laid bare.  The girl’s unsmiling eyes troubled him.

“What’s the favour?” he asked simply, as Nancy remained silent.

The girl started.  She had turned to the evening light pouring in through the window.  Her thought had wandered to that grim, dark future when the twilit forests would close about her, and the strong tones of this man’s voice would never again be able to reach her.

She drew a folded paper from the bosom of her frock.

“Would you let them send it for me—­wireless?” she asked timidly.  “It’s—­it’s to Mr. Peterman.”

All Bull’s desire to smile had passed.  He nodded.

“Yes,” he said.  “If you wish it.  It shall be sent right off.”

His tone had suddenly lost its warmth.  It seemed as if the mention of Peterman’s name had destroyed his goodwill.

Nancy searched his face anxiously.  The man’s brows had depressed and his strong jaws had become set.  She knew that expression.  Usually it was the prelude to uncompromising action.

She drew a deep breath.

“Oh, I know,” she cried.  “I know the thing you’re thinking.  You’re reminding yourself of all I’ve done, and of the injury I’ve striven to inflict on you.  You’re wondering at my temerity in asking you to help me communicate with your enemies.  But please, please don’t think worse of me than you can help.  I’m not just trying to use you.  It’s not that.  Will you read the message?  Maybe it’ll tell you better than any words of mine.”

The paper was held out to him in an unsteady hand.  Bull ignored it.  He shook his head.

“No,” he said.

Nancy sprang to her feet.

“But you must read it,” she cried.  “If you don’t I—­oh, I won’t send it.  I couldn’t.  Don’t make me sorry I asked this favour.  It is so little to you, and—­and it means so much to me.”

She stood waiting, but Bull showed no sign of yielding.  He was thinking of the man, Peterman.  He remembered his good-looking Teutonic face, and the favour with which Nancy had seemed to regard him.  A smouldering jealousy had suddenly blazed up within him.

Nancy turned away in desperation.  She moved to depart.