“I wish you wouldn’t, dear,” he pleaded.

How pathetically white, and thin, and weak he was!  She kissed him again and turned quickly to hide the mist in her eyes.  At the door she blew him a kiss from the tip of her big fur mitten, and as she went out she heard him say in the thin, strange voice that was so unlike the old Peter: 

“Don’t be long, Dolores.”

She stood silently for a few moments to make sure that no one would see her.  Then she moved swiftly to the ice bridge and out into the star-lighted ghostliness of the night.  Wapi followed close behind her, and dropping a hand to her side she called softly to him.  In an instant Wapi’s muzzle was against her mitten, and his great body quivered with joy at her direct speech to him.  She saw the response in his red eyes and stopped to stroke him with both mittened hands, and over and over again she spoke his name.  “Wapi—­Wapi—­Wapi.”  He whined.  She could feel him under her touch as if alive with an electrical force.  Her eyes shone.  In the white starlight there was a new emotion in her face.  She had found a friend, the one friend she and Peter had, and it made her braver.

At no time had she actually been afraid—­for herself.  It was for Peter.  And she was not afraid now.  Her cheeks flushed with exertion and her breath came quickly as she neared Blake’s cabin.  Twice she had made excuses to go ashore—­just because she was curious, she had said—­and she believed that she had measured up Blake pretty well.  It was a case in which her woman’s intuition had failed her miserably.  She was amazed that such a man had marooned himself voluntarily on the arctic coast.  She did not, of course, understand his business—­entirely.  She thought him simply a trader.  And he was unlike any man aboard ship.  By his carefully clipped beard, his calm, cold manner of speech, and the unusual correctness with which he used his words she was convinced that at some time or another he had been part of what she mentally thought of as “an entirely different environment.”

She was right.  There was a time when London and New York would have given much to lay their hands on the man who now called himself Blake.

Dolores, excited by the conviction that Blake would help her when he heard her story, still did not lose her caution.  Rydal had given her another twenty-four hours, and that was all.  In those twenty-four hours she must fight out their salvation, her own and Peter’s.  If Blake should fail—­

Fifty paces from his cabin she stopped, slipped the big fur mitten from her right hand and unbuttoned her coat so that she could quickly and easily reach an inside pocket in which was Peter’s revolver.  She smiled just a bit grimly, as her fingers touched the cold steel.  It was to be her last resort.  And she was thinking in that flash of the days “back home” when she was counted the best revolver shot at the Piping Rock.  She could beat Peter, and Peter was good.  Her fingers twined a bit fondly about the pearl-handled thing in her pocket.  The last resort—­and from the first it had given her courage to keep the truth from Peter!