With Scotch stoicism MacDonnell had repressed whatever excitement he may have felt.  He spoke quietly.  But the curious shudder went through his shoulders again.  Challoner stared at him in blank amazement.

“You mean to say that Miki—­this dog—­has killed a man?”

“Yes.  He killed him, Durant says, just as he killed Grouse Piet’s wolf-dog in the big fight to-day.  Ugh!” As Challoner’s eyes fell slowly upon Miki, the Factor added:  “But Grouse Piet’s dog was better than the man.  If what I hear about Le Beau was true he’s better dead than alive.  Challoner, if you didn’t think it too much trouble, and could go that way—­and see Nanette—­”

“I’ll go,” said Challoner, dropping a hand to Miki’s head.

For half an hour after that MacDonnell told him the things he knew about Nanette Le Beau.  When Challoner rose to go the Factor followed him to the door.

“Keep your eyes open for Durant,” he warned.  “That dog is worth more to him than all his winnings to-day, and they say his stakes were big.  He won heavily from Grouse Piet, but the halfbreed is thick with him now.  I know it.  So watch out.”

Out in the open space, in the light of the moon and stars, Challoner stood far a moment with Miki’s forepaws resting against his breast.  The dog’s head was almost on a level with his shoulders.

“D’ye remember when you fell out of the canoe, Boy?” he asked softly.  “Remember how you ‘n’ the cub were tied in the bow, an’ you got to scrapping and fell overboard just above the rapids?  Remember?  By Jove! those rapids pretty near got me, too.  I thought you were dead, sure—­both of you.  I wonder what happened to the cub?”

Miki whined in response, and his whole body trembled.

“And since then you’ve killed a man,” added Challoner, as if he still could not quite believe.  “And I’m to take you back to the woman.  That’s the funny thing about it.  You’re going back to her, and if she says kill you—­”

He dropped Miki’s forefeet and went on to the cabin.  At the threshold a low growl rose in Miki’s throat.  Challoner laughed, and opened the door.  They went in, and the dog’s growl was a menacing snarl.  Challoner had left his lamp burning low, and in the light of it he saw Henri Durant and Grouse Piet waiting for him.  He turned up the wick, and nodded.

“Good evening.  Pretty late for a call, isn’t it?”

Grouse Piet’s stolid face did not change its expression.  It struck Challoner, as he glanced at him, that in head and shoulders he bore a grotesque resemblance to a walrus.  Durant’s eyes were dully ablaze.  His face was swollen where Challoner had struck him.  Miki, stiffened to the hardness of a knot, and still snarling under his breath, had crawled under Challoner’s bunk.  Durant pointed to him.

“We’ve come after that dog,” he said.