“There are only two women there now,” he replied.  “Since a certain Bucky Nome passed that way, one of them has gone into the South.”

“Well, two, then,” said Breed, who had not caught the flash of fire in the other’s eyes.  “But I tell you there ain’t a one here, Steele, not even an Indian—­and that dirty Cree, Jack, is doing the cooking.  Blessed Saints, I caught him mixing biscuit dough in the wash basin the other day, and I’ve been eating those biscuits ever since our people went out to their traplines!  There’s you, and Nome, two Crees, a ‘half’ and myself—­and that’s every soul there’ll be at Lac Bain until the mid-winter run of fur.  Now, what in Heaven’s name is the poor old Mrs. Colonel going to do?”

“Got a bed for her?”

“A bunk—­hard as nails!”

“Good grub?”

“Rotten!” groaned the factor.  “Every trapper’s son of them took out big supplies this fall and we’re stripped.  Beans, flour, sugar’n’prunes—­and caribou until I feel like turning inside out every time I smell it.  I’d give a month’s commission for a pound of pork.  Look here!  If this letter ain’t ‘quality’ you can cut me into jiggers.  Bet the Mrs. Colonel wrote it for her hubby.”

From an inside pocket Breed drew forth a square white envelope with a broken seal of red wax, and from it extracted a folded sheet of cream-tinted paper.  Scarcely had Steele taken the note in his hands when a quick thrill passed through him.  Before he had read the first line he was conscious again of that haunting sweetness in the air he breathed—­the perfume of hyacinth.  There was not only this perfume, but the same paper, the same delicately pretty writing of the letter he had burned more than a week before.  He made no effort to suppress the exclamation of astonishment that broke from his lips.  Breed was staring at him when he lifted his eyes.

“This is a mighty strange coincidence, Breed,” he said, regaining his composure.  “I could almost swear that I know this writing, and yet of course such a thing is impossible.  Still, it’s mighty queer.  Will you let me keep the letter until to-night?  I’d like to take it over to the cabin and compare it—­”

“Needn’t return it at all,” interrupted the factor.  “Hope you find something interesting to tell me at supper—­five sharp.  It will be a blessing if you know ’em.”

Ten minutes later Steele was in the little cabin which he and Nome occupied while at Lac Bain.  Jack, the Cree, had built a rousing fire in the long sheet-iron stove, and as Steele opened its furnace-like door, a flood of light poured out into the gathering gloom of early evening.  Drawing a chair full into the light, he again opened the letter.  Line for line and word for word he scrutinized the writing, and with each breath that he drew he found himself more deeply thrilled by a curious mental excitement which it was impossible for him to explain.  According to the letter.  Colonel and Mrs. Becker had arrived at