“I mean that they have got him locked up in jail, charged with selling liquor to an Indian.” The man half-rose from his chair: “Who has?” he cried, “It’s an outrage! Who had him locked up? But, don’t you worry! Wait right here!” he was on his feet, now. “I’ll have him out in a jiffy! They’ve got to let him out on bail!” The girl motioned him to be seated, and as he stared into her face he saw that the corners of her mouth twitched into just the suspicion of a smile. “You can’t get him out on bail until after the race. The judge has declared a holiday. It’s hard on dad, but--don’t you see? He can’t drive the race in jail!” There was no question about the smile on the girl’s lips, now, and as the man slowly settled into his chair, he laughed aloud: “So that’s what you’ve been up to, is it? But, you’d better never let him find it out. He’d be furious!” “I had nothing whatever to do with it,” answered the girl, “But, I think I know who did.” “Who?” “Jake Dalzene.” “Who’s Jake Dalzene?” The waiter was removing the first course of the specially prepared dinner that MacShane had ordered with the help of the head waiter, and which included everything obtainable in Nome that was not to be found on the regular bill of fare. The fingers that conveyed a ripe olive to the girl’s lips trembled slightly. Had she heard aright? Was the man actually feigning ignorance of Dalzene, when, with her own eyes she had seen them together, that very afternoon? Was it possible that he was a confederate of the hooch-runner, and that she was being made the victim of some deep-laid scheme? But, no. For this man knew, if Dalzene did not, that to arrest her father to prevent him from driving the race would be playing directly into her hands. What then? As she spoke, she was conscious that there was a peculiar tightening at the muscles of her throat: “Don’t you know Jake Dalzene?” the words were uttered with an effort. “Don’t know him. Never even heard of him, that I know of,” answered the man.