cheerfulness she felt sure there lurked a hunger which the mere affection of his ‘boys’ could never satisfy.  And now the thought that Dan had come between him and his heart’s desire filled her with pity.  He seemed suddenly a very lonely figure of a man, despite his material success.  When his enemies were doing, had already done, so much to defeat him, it seemed unfair that his trusted friend should step between him and the fulfilment of his dearest ambition—­that ambition common to all men, failure in which brings a sense of failure to a man’s whole life, no matter what other ends are achieved.  Of course, he would smile and swallow his bitterness—­that was his nature—­but she would know the truth.

“Poor Omar Khayyam,” she thought, wistfully, “I wish there were love enough in the world for you.  I wish there were two Natalies, or that—­” Then she shook the dream from her mind and went into the house, for the night was cold and she was shaking wretchedly.

O’Neil behaved more handsomely even than Eliza had anticipated.  He hurried into town on the following morning, and his congratulations were so sincere, his manner so hearty that Dan forgot his embarrassment and took a shameless delight in advertising his happiness.  Nor did Murray stop with mere words:  he summoned all his lieutenants, and Omar rang that night with a celebration such as it had never before known.  The company chef had been busy all day, the commissary had been ransacked, and the wedding-supper was of a nature to interfere with office duties for many days thereafter.  Tom Slater made a congratulatory speech—­in reality, a mournful adjuration to avoid the pitfalls of matrimonial inharmony—­and openly confessed that his digestion was now impaired beyond relief.  Others followed him; there was music, laughter, a riotous popping of corks; and over it all O’Neil presided with grace and mellowness.  Then, after the two young people had been made thoroughly to feel his good will, he went back to the front, and Omar saw him but seldom in the weeks that followed.

To romantic Eliza, this self-sought seclusion had but one meaning—­the man was broken-hearted.  She did not consider that there might be other reasons for his constant presence at the glaciers.

Of course, since the unwelcome publication of the North Pass & Yukon story O’Neil had been in close touch with Illis, and by dint of strong argument had convinced the Englishman of his own innocence in the affair.  A vigorous investigation might have proved disastrous, but, fortunately, Curtis Gordon lacked leisure in which to follow the matter up.  The truth was that after his public exposure at Eliza’s hands he was far too busy mending his own fences to spare time for attempts upon his rival.  Consequently, the story was allowed to die out, and O’Neil was finally relieved to learn that its effect had been killed.  Precisely how Illis had effected this he did not know, nor did he care to inquire.  Illis had been forced into an iniquitous bargain; and, since he had taken the first chance to free himself from it, the question of abstract right or wrong was not a subject for squeamish consideration.