“In the meantime you will have succeeded in educating the Indians to a realization of the fact that they owe allegiance to no man.  MacNair’s power is broken.  He will be discredited by the authorities, and hated by his own Indians—­a veritable pariah of the wilderness.  And now, Miss Elliston, I must hasten at once to the rivers.  My interests there have long been neglected.  I shall return as soon as possible, but my absence will necessarily be prolonged, for beside my own trading affairs and the getting out of the timber for new scows, I hope to procure such additional evidence as will insure the conviction of MacNair.  LeFroy will remain with you here.”

“Did you catch the whiskey runners?” Chloe asked.

Lapierre shook his head.  “No,” he answered, “they succeeded in eluding us among the islands at the eastern end of the lake.  We were about to push our search to a conclusion when news reached us of MacNair’s arrest, and we returned with all speed to the Yellow Knife.”

Somehow, the man’s words sounded unconvincing—­the glib reply was too ready—­too like the studied answer to an anticipated question.  She regarded him searchingly, but the simple directness of his gaze caused her own eyes to falter, and she turned into the house with a deep breath that was very like a sigh.

The sense of elation and self-confidence inspired by Lapierre’s first words ebbed as it had ebbed before the unspoken rebuke of Big Lena, leaving her strangely depressed.  With the joy of accomplishment dead within her, she drove herself to her work without enthusiasm.  In all the world, nothing seemed worth while.  She was unsure—­unsure of Lapierre; unsure of herself; unsure of Big Lena—­and, worst of all, unbelievable and preposterous as it seemed in the light of what she had witnessed with her own eyes, unsure of MacNair—­of his villainy!

Before noon the first snow of the season started in a fall of light, feathery flakes, which gradually resolved themselves into fine, hard particles that were hurled and buffeted about by the blasts of a fitful wind.

For three days the blizzard raged—­days in which Lapierre contrived to spend much time in Chloe’s company, and during which the girl set about deliberately to study the quarter-breed, in the hope of placing definitely the defect in his make-up, the tangible reason for the growing sense of distrust with which she was coming to regard him.  But, try as she would, she could find no cause, no justification, for the uncomfortable and indefinable something that was gradually developing into an actual doubt of his sincerity.  She knew that the man had himself well in hand, for never by word or look did he express any open avowal of love, although a dozen times a day he managed subtly to show that his love had in no wise abated.

On the morning of the fourth day, with forest and lake and river buried beneath three feet of snow, Lapierre took the trail for the southward.  Before leaving, he sought out LeFroy in the storehouse.