Oskar Hedin paused in the act of putting the finishing touches on the edge of his belt ax, and as John McNabb entered the room, he rose hastily to meet him.

“Where’s Murchison?” asked the newcomer, and Hedin noted that no slightest hint of recognition flickered in his employer’s eyes.

Repressing the desire to laugh, he answered in the slow, dull-witted manner of Sven Larsen.  “He is in there,” pointing to the door of the factor’s room.

“Tell him to come out here,” commanded McNabb brusquely.

“Do you want to see him?”

“What in the devil d’ye think I’m waitin’ here for?  Hurry, now, an’ don’t be standin’ there gawpin’.”

Hedin grinned broadly as he entered Murchison’s door, and a moment later McNabb’s hands were gripped by the two hands of the factor.  “It’s glad I am to see ye, John.  An’ how does it feel to get home once more?”

“Ye’ll be knowin’ yourself how it feels to a man that’s been thirty years out of the bush.  But where’s Hedin?”

“He’ll be here directly,” answered Murchison.  “John, I want ye to meet my clerk, Sven Larsen.  He’s the best clerk I ever had.”

McNabb glanced into the bearded face that blinked stupidly at him.  “Ye haven’t be’n over favored with clerks, I’d say, Dugald.  But how are ye fixed for quarters?”

Murchison laughed.  “I guess we can rig up a bunk for ye, John.”

“It ain’t myself I was thinkin’ about.  It’s the lass.  She’s had four pretty hard days on the trail, an’ she’d be the better for a comfortable bunk.”

“The lass!” exclaimed Murchison.

“Jean!  Here!” Strong fingers gripped McNabb’s arm, and he stared in astonishment into the face of Sven Larsen.  The loose-lipped, vapid expression was gone, and the blue-gray eyes stared into his own with burning intensity.

“You don’t mean——?  Why, Oskar lad!”

“Sh—­sh.  But she mustn’t know!  Promise me—­both of you!  She will be going to bed early, and after supper I’ll see you at the landing.”

McNabb studied the face quizzically.  “Ye fooled me, all right, but I’m doubtin’ ye can fool Jean.”

“At least, I can try,” answered the clerk.  “I’ll see you at supper,” and without waiting for a reply, he ascended the ladder that led to the fur loft.

“Where is the lass?  Fetch her in, John.”  Murchison’s eyes twinkled as he stepped closer.  “He thinks he’s lost her,” he whispered.  “But tell me, John, d’ye think the lass cares for this damned Wentworth?”

“Who can say?” grinned McNabb. “’Twill not be long now till we can see for ourselves,” and stepping to the door he called Jean, who was trying to make friends with a group of Indian children.

“She’ll have my room,” said Murchison, as he followed McNabb to the door.  “An’ no bunk, either, but a brass bed that I bought in Winnipeg out of respect for my old bones an’ the weakening flesh that covers ‘em.  You an’ me will pitch a tent, an’ ’twill be the first time in many years, John, we’ve slept under canvas together.”