"We mus' start to-night."
"You are crazy, man; you need sleep," protested McKenzie. "I know it's a life and death matter. But you wouldn't help that girl at Whale River by losing the trail to-night and freezing. I'll see Hunter at once, but I can't allow him to go to his death. If the blow eases by morning, he can start."
Again Marcel turned, waiting for Wallace, who nervously paced the floor, to speak. Then with a shrug he said:
"M'sieu Wallace weel wish to start to-night? I have de bes' lead-dog on dees coast. She weel not lose de trail."
"What do you mean—Monsieur Wallace?" blurted the factor. Wallace raised a face on which agony and indecision were plainly written. But it was Jean Marcel who answered, with all the scorn of his tortured heart.
"She ees de fiancée—of M'sieu Wallace."
"Oh, I—I didn't—understand!" stumbled the embarrassed McKenzie, reddening to his eyes. "But—I can't advise you to start to-night, Mr. Wallace."
The factor went to the door. As he lifted the heavy latch, in spite of his bulk the power of the wind hurled him backward. The door crashed against the log-wall, while the room was filled with driving snow.
"You see what it's like, Wallace! No dog-team would have a chance on this coast to-night—not a chance."
"Yes," agreed Wallace, avoiding Marcel's eyes. Then he went on, "You understand, McKenzie, I'm knocked clean off my feet by this news. But—we'll want to start, at least, by morning—sooner, if the dogs are rested—that is, of course, if it's possible."