"It isn't my money," Wentworth cried savagely. Then he suddenly paused, and for upwards of thirty seconds the room was in dead silence. When he spoke again, it was in a voice palpably held in control. "I guess you have got us," he said. "There seems to be nothing for me to do but accept the money." He held out his hand as Cameron slowly counted out the big bills. Then without recounting, Wentworth thrust them into his pocket, and with quick, nervous strokes of his pen signed the receipt which Cameron placed before him. Then in a voice trembling with suppressed rage he faced McNabb. "Damn you!" he cried. "I thought--Orcutt said you were beginning to slip!" "Well, maybe he's right," admitted McNabb, and the engineer saw that his lips twitched at the corners. "Who was your representative?" he demanded abruptly. "And, how did it come that he arrived just in the nick of time?" "Why, his name is Sven Larsen. He's Murchison's clerk," answered the Scot. "And he was here all the time." "Sven Larsen!" yelled Wentworth. "That half-wit! Why, he hasn't got sense enough to come in out of the rain!" "Maybe ye're right," admitted McNabb, "but that isn't what I hired him to do." With an oath, Wentworth pushed past Cameron and started for the door to find himself suddenly face to face with Sven Larsen. "Get out of my way, damn you!" he cried. "Go up in the loft and wallow in your stinking furs!" "Furs!" repeated the clerk dully, but without giving an inch. "Oh, yes, furs." He was looking Wentworth squarely in the eyes with a heavy stare. "Some fur is good, and some is bad. A Russian sable is better than a baum marten." At the words, Jean McNabb, who had been a silent but fascinated listener to all that transpired, leaned swiftly forward, her eyes staring into the uncouth face of the speaker, who continued, "And when the coat is dark, and of matched skins, it is very much better than any baum marten. And when one receives the sable coat on a winter's night from the hands of a beautiful Russian princess whom one is helping to escape through a roaring blizzard in a motor car--or was it a sleigh?" "Stop, damn you!" In the lamp-light the on-lookers saw that the face of the engineer had gone livid. His words came thickly. "You fool! Are you crazy? Have you forgotten Pollak, and what happened in the shop of Levinski, the furrier? Where is Pollak?" A slow grin overspread the face of Sven Larsen. "I invented Pollak to cover a mistake I made. There never was any Pollak, Wentworth, but there is a Russian sable coat. The coat is in your trunk in the cabin. It is the coat you stole from Miss McNabb on the night of the Campbell dinner."