He had heard enough, and as there was nothing he could do, he went back to the house, where he passed a sleepless night.  He could not get those cries of distress out of his mind, and he wondered whether he should not try to escape under cover of night.  He banished this idea, however, as useless.  He thought, too, of Glen.  Would she allow the Indians to put him to death?  He recalled what she had said about her father; how little she understood him, and that she had no idea what he might do.

Early the next morning he was standing by the side of the lake, when he saw The Frontiersman cutting through the water, headed downstream.  A lone figure was standing well aft, and he at once recognized it as Glen.  She waved her hand to him as the boat sped by, and he could see her standing there until a bend in the shore hid her from view.  Going back to the house he learned from Klota that the master of Glen West had gone down to the Yukon River for his mail.  It was always left at the trading-post by the steamers on their way down river.  It generally took a whole day to make the trip there and back.  This information caused Reynolds considerable disappointment, as he would not be able to meet Weston or his daughter that day.

The sun was just disappearing beyond the mountain peaks when The Frontiersman returned, and ran up the creek to her wharf.  Reynolds, watching, hoped to see Glen upon the deck.  But he looked for her in vain, and he wondered what had become of her.  Was it possible that her father had sent her outside? he asked himself.

Sconda did not come home for supper, but about an hour later he appeared with two other Indians, and informed Reynolds that the Big White Chief wished to see him.  Reynolds now knew that the critical moment had arrived, so without the least hesitation he accompanied his guards, who conducted him at once to the big house on the hill.

Jim Weston was seated at his desk as the prisoner was ushered in.  The first glance at the man told Reynolds that he was a person who would stand no nonsense or quibbling.  Boldness must be met with boldness, and nothing but candour and truthfulness would serve him now.  He looked about the room.  Shelves well filled with books showed that their owner was a reader and a student.  The walls were adorned with trophies of the chase, such as fine antlers of moose, caribou, and great horns of mountain sheep, while several large and valuable bear and wolf-skin rugs were stretched out upon the floor.

“What are you doing here, young man?”

These words deliberately uttered brought Reynolds back from his contemplation of the room.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked, looking Weston full in the eyes.

“Certainly.  What did I ask you for, then?”

“Well, I am here because I was brought in on your boat.”

“I know that,” wag the impatient reply.  “But what were you doing in this region?”