Days passed in fruitless endeavors; evenings found O’Neil in his corner of the Holland House Cafe racking his brain for some way out of his perplexities.  Usually he was surrounded by friends, for he continued to entertain in the lavish fashion for which he had gained a reputation; but sometimes he was alone, and then his solitude became more oppressive than it had ever been even in the farthest wastes of the northland.  He was made to feel his responsibility with dreadful keenness, for his associates were in a panic and bombarded him with daily inquiries, vexatious and hard to answer.  He had hoped that in this extremity they might give him some practical help, and they did make a few half-hearted attempts, only to meet the same discouragements as he.  At last they left him to carry the burden alone.

A week, two weeks went by.  He was in constant cable communication with Omar, but not even the faithful Dr. Gray knew the dire straits in which his chief was struggling.  Work on the S. R. & N. was going forward as usual.  The organization was running at its highest efficiency:  rails were being laid; gangs of rock-workers were preparing the grade beyond the glaciers.  Yet every day that passed, every pay-check drawn brought ruin closer.  Nevertheless, O’Neil continued to joke and chat with the men who came to his table in the cafe and kept his business appointments with his customary cheerfulness.  The waiters who attended him rejoiced in his usual princely tips.

One evening as he ran through his mail he found a letter in a woman’s handwriting and, glancing at the signature, started.  It was signed “Gloria Gordon.”  Briefly it apprised him of her marriage and of her and Natalie’s return to Hope.  Gloria thanked him perfunctorily for his many kindnesses, but she neither expressed nor implied an invitation for him to visit them.  He smiled a little grimly—­already her loyalty had veered to Gordon’s side, and Natalie no doubt shared her feeling.  Well, it was but natural, perhaps.  It would be unreasonable to expect them to sacrifice their desires, and what they now seemed to consider their interests, to a business quarrel they could hardly be expected to understand.  He could not help feeling hurt that the women should so readily exchange his friendship for the protection of his bitterest enemy, but—­they were helpless and he had helped them; let it rest at that.  He was really troubled, however, that they had been so easily deceived.  If they had only waited!  If he had only been able to advise them!  For Gordon’s intention was plain.  He was aroused from his train of thought by a stranger whom he found standing beside his table and looking down at him with wavering eye.

“Misser O’Neil, ain’t it?” the fellow inquired.  “Sure!  Thought I knew you.  I’m Bulker, of the old North Pass.  Remember me?”

Mr. Bulker had been imbibing freely.  He showed evidences of a protracted spree not only in his speech, but in the trembling hand which he extended.  His eyes were bloodshot, and his good-natured face was purple.