From half-amused interest Alan jerked himself to alert tension.  He caught a glimpse of the gaunt, old graybeard who had spoken, but did not know him.  And as this man turned away, a shadowy hulk in the moonlight, the same deep, quiet voice came back very clearly: 

“And if you ever care for Alaska, you might tell your government to hang a few such men as John Graham, sonny.”

At the sound of that name Alan felt the blood in him run suddenly hot.  Only one man on the face of the earth did he hate with undying hatred, and that man was John Graham.  He would have followed, seeking the identity of the stranger whose words had temporarily stunned the young engineers, when he saw a slim figure standing between him and the light of the smoking-room windows.  It was Mary Standish.  He knew by her attitude that she had heard the words of the young engineer and the old graybeard, but she was looking at him.  And he could not remember that he had ever seen quite that same look in a woman’s face before.  It was not fright.  It was more an expression of horror which comes from thought and mental vision rather than physical things.  Instantly it annoyed Alan Holt.  This was the second time she had betrayed a too susceptible reaction in matters which did not concern her.  So he said, speaking to the silent young men a few steps away: 

“He was mistaken, gentlemen.  John Graham should not be hung.  That would be too merciful.”

He resumed his way then, nodding at them as he passed.  But he had scarcely gone out of their vision when quick footsteps pattered behind him, and the girl’s hand touched his arm lightly.

“Mr. Holt, please—­”

He stopped, sensing the fact that the soft pressure of her fingers was not altogether unpleasant.  She hesitated, and when she spoke again, only her finger-tips touched his arm.  She was looking shoreward, so that for a moment he could see only the lustrous richness of her smooth hair.  Then she was meeting his eyes squarely, a flash of challenge in the gray depths of her own.

“I am alone on the ship,” she said.  “I have no friends here.  I want to see things and ask questions.  Will you ... help me a little?”

“You mean ... escort you?”

“Yes, if you will.  I should feel more comfortable.”

Nettled at first, the humor of the situation began to appeal to him, and he wondered at the intense seriousness of the girl.  She did not smile.  Her eyes were very steady and very businesslike, and at the same time very lovely.

“The way you put it, I don’t see how I can refuse,” he said.  “As for the questions—­probably Captain Rifle can answer them better than I.”

“I don’t like to trouble him,” she replied.  “He has much to think about.  And you are alone.”

“Yes, quite alone.  And with very little to think about.”

“You know what I mean, Mr. Holt.  Possibly you can not understand me, or won’t try.  But I’m going into a new country, and I have a passionate desire to learn as much about that country as I can before I get there.  I want to know about many things.  For instance—­”