“Why was she courageous?”

“Because she came alone into a man’s land, without a soul to fight for her, determined to make a fortune along with the others.  And she did.  As long as there is a Dawson sour-dough alive, he will remember Belinda Mulrooney.”

“She proved what a woman could do, Mr. Holt.”

“Yes, and a little later she proved how foolish a woman can be, Miss Standish.  She became the richest woman in Dawson.  Then came a man who posed as a count, Belinda married him, and they went to Paris. Finis, I think.  Now, if she had married Stampede Smith over there, with his big whiskers—­”

He did not finish.  Half a dozen paces from them a man had risen from a table and was facing them.  There was nothing unusual about him, except his boldness as he looked at Mary Standish.  It was as if he knew her and was deliberately insulting her in a stare that was more than impudent in its directness.  Then a sudden twist came to his lips; he shrugged his shoulders slightly and turned away.

Alan glanced swiftly at his companion.  Her lips were compressed, and her cheeks were flaming hotly.  Even then, as his own blood boiled, he could not but observe how beautiful anger made her.

“If you will pardon me a moment,” he said quietly, “I shall demand an explanation.”

Her hand linked itself quickly through his arm.

“Please don’t,” she entreated.  “It is kind of you, and you are just the sort of man I should expect to resent a thing like that.  But it would be absurd to notice it.  Don’t you think so?”

In spite of her effort to speak calmly, there was a tremble in her voice, and Alan was puzzled at the quickness with which the color went from her face, leaving it strangely white.

“I am at your service,” he replied with a rather cold inclination of his head.  “But if you were my sister, Miss Standish, I would not allow anything like that to go unchallenged.”

He watched the stranger until he disappeared through a door out upon the deck.

“One of John Graham’s men,” he said.  “A fellow named Rossland, going up to get a final grip on the salmon fishing, I understand.  They’ll choke the life out of it in another two years.  Funny what this filthy stuff we call money can do, isn’t it?  Two winters ago I saw whole Indian villages starving, and women and little children dying by the score because of this John Graham’s money.  Over-fishing did it, you understand.  If you could have seen some of those poor little devils, just skin and bones, crying for a rag to eat—­”

Her hand clutched at his arm.  “How could John Graham—­do that?” she whispered.

He laughed unpleasantly.  “When you have been a year in Alaska you won’t ask that question, Miss Standish. How?  Why, simply by glutting his canneries and taking from the streams the food supply which the natives have depended upon for generations.  In other words, the money he handles represents the fish trust—­and many other things.  Please don’t misunderstand me.  Alaska needs capital for its development.  Without it we will not only cease to progress; we will die.  No territory on the face of the earth offers greater opportunities for capital than Alaska does today.  Ten thousand fortunes are waiting to be made here by men who have money to invest.