Before he responded to it, Steele wound the silken thread of gold about his ringer, then placed it carefully among the papers and cards which he carried in his leather wallet.

His face was flushed when he joined the factor.

Not since the night at the Hawkins' ball, when he had felt the touch of a beautiful woman's hands, the warmth of her breath, the soft sweep of her hair against his lips as he had leaned over her in his half-surrender, had thought of woman stirred him as he felt himself stirred now.

He was glad that Breed was too much absorbed in his own troubles to observe any possible change in himself or to ask questions about the letter.
"I tell you, it may mean the short birch for me, Steele," said the factor gloomily.

"Lac Bain is just now the emptiest, most fallen-to-pieces, unbusiness-like post between the Athabasca and the Bay.