I have not seen that strange woman since. She sends me a picture post card occasionally, usually a winter scene, with mica snow. It is her inarticulate way of asking forgiveness for the blow she dealt me. THE CONSULTATION Nothing was more characteristic of the candor and co-operative spirit of the Commander of the Traprock Expedition than his constant willingness to discuss matters with his fellow-travellers. One of the most moot of all moot questions which frequently presented itself was that of route. Having arrived at a certain or uncertain point in the vast snowfields, someone was sure to ask, "Where do we go from here?" or "Where do you think you are now?" From the outset Dr. Traprock realized the desirability of an answer to such interrogations. His experience during numerous previous Arctic voyages convinced him that most of the bitterness of feeling which almost inevitably disrupts polar-parties springs from the unwillingness, to put it mildly, of the leader to satisfy the natural curiosity of his men in this regard. In order to avoid this difficulty he had carefully prepared maps showing the progress made during each day with the projected itinerary, points of interest, and probable weather conditions. Colored crayons added a decorative value to the charts. We here see him explaining to Wigmore, the somewhat belligerent snow-and-ice-expert, the proposed return route. Instead of confusing the rather unscientific man with a mass of latitudinal and longitudinal figures, the Doctor states the whole matter clearly by saying, "We simply follow the green line." The fatal results of disregarding this injunction are embodied in the text. Needless to say they fully prove the value of the Commander's cartographical skill. An interesting sidelight is the fact that their daily charts were equally accurate when based on solar observation or during the long Arctic night when the only basis of authority was Captain Triplett's amazing bump of locality, which was about the size of a hen's-egg. [Illustration: A Consultation] Just inside the three mile limit we were boarded by revenue officers from the patrol boat, W.H. Anderson. They made a careful search for liquor. "Back to abnormalcy!" carped Swank who was panting to get ashore. My wires from Grant Land (via Indian runners to Moose Factory) had warned the scientific world of our arrival. Further details, giving brief accounts of the deaths of Plock, Miskin and Sloff had been telegraphed from St. John's. The same gala array and marine salutation which had sped our departure welcomed our return. But it was with a heavy heart that I stepped on the Yacht Club landing stage. My mysterious orders were still to be explained, orders which, had they reached me when intended, would have brought me ignominiously home, empty of honors and achievement.