"Oh, no, my son! It was you who threw away your own honor."
"If only I had thought of that at the time! Now they have his secret—his samples. They'll know about his mine! Tell him——"
The minister worked over the fainting form with tender skill. At last, when a glimmer of consciousness returned, "Now, my son," he said, "you owe it to the man you have wronged to make restitution. Tell me who he is, and what I am to say to him."
Walter gathered his strength for a supreme effort. "Durant," at last he managed to gasp. "Tell his daughter——" He fell back in the stupor that precedes death.
"O Joseph! Chilkat Jo!" called Maclane. And when the Indian, obeying with alacrity, replied, "Godam you, what you want?" he did not stay to reprove him, only bade him, "Run hot-foot to Lost Shoe Creek and fetch Miss Durant. Tell her I have a message from her father!"
When the trader had set off, the speed of his winged-footed race redoubled by good will, Maclane, having drawn the sled to a spot where a clump of evergreens would act as wind-brake, went to the Customs Office on the crest of the hill in search of remedies.
Seeing the coast clear, old Blenksoe, who for some time past had been hovering about the place, now came to the lunch counter, where he soon was joined by his arch-accomplice in villainy, Dandy Raish. "Hello, old tortoise!" was the hitter's salutation as his partner sauntered up. "I've been waiting for you this ever so long."
"Thet you hevn't," contradicted Blenksoe. "Not that it matters—but you allus were a fust-class liar!"
"Some folks have not enough imagination to lie," retorted the Dandy, paring his nails. "But chuck all that and get to business!"
"Business! Hully gee! Anythin' doin'? Am I in it?"