Her next words thrilled him.

“Kobenhavn—­Muskvas—­St. Petersburg—­Rusland—­Sibirien—­Amerika.”

“Copenhagen—­Muskvas, whatever that is—­St. Petersburg—­Russia—­ Siberia—­America,” he repeated, staring at her incredulously.  “Celie, if you love me, be reasonable!  Do you expect me to believe that you came all the way from Denmark to this God-forsaken madman’s cabin in the heart of the Canada Barrens by way of Russia and Siberia?  You!  I can’t believe it.  There’s a mistake somewhere.  Here—­”

He thought of his pocket atlas, supplied by the department as a part of his service kit, and remembered that in the back of it was a small map of the world.  In half a minute he had secured it and was holding the map under her eyes.  Her little forefinger touched Copenhagen.  Leaning over her shoulder, he felt her hair crumpling against his breast.  He felt an insane desire to bury his face in it and hug her up close in his arms—­for a single moment the question of whether she came from Copenhagen or the moon was irrelevant and of little consequence.  He, at least, had found her.  He was digging her out of chaos, and he was filled with the joyous exultation of a triumphant discoverer—­almost the thrill of ownership.  He held his breath as he watched the little forefinger telling him its story on the map.

From Copenhagen it went to Moscow—­which must have been Muskvas, and from there it trailed slowly to St. Petersburg and thence straight across Russia and Siberia to Bering Sea.

“Skunnert,” she said softly, and her finger came across to the green patch on the map which was Alaska.

It hesitated there.  Evidently it was a question in her own mind where she had gone after that.  At least she could not tell him on the map.  And now, seeing that he was understanding her, she was becoming visibly excited.  She pulled him to the window and pointed to the wolves.  Alaska—­and after that dogs and sledge.  He nodded.  He was jubilant.  She was Celie Armin, of Copenhagen, Denmark, and had come to Alaska by way of Russia and Siberia—­and after that had traveled by dog-train.  But why had she come, and what had happened to make her the companion or prisoner of Bram Johnson?  He knew she was trying to tell him.  With her back to the window she talked to him again, gesturing with her hands, and almost sobbing under the stress of the emotion that possessed her.  His elation turned swiftly to the old dread as he watched the change in her face.  Apprehension—­a grim certainty—­gripped hold of him.  Something terrible had happened to her—­a thing that had racked her soul and that filled her eyes with the blaze of a strange terror as she struggled to make him understand.  And then she broke down, and with a sobbing cry covered her face with her hands.