Pentfield shook it, but without warmth or speech. By this time the two women had come up, and he noticed that the second one was Dora Holmes. He doffed his fur cap, the flaps of which were flying, shook hands with her, and turned toward Mabel. She swayed forward, splendid and radiant, but faltered before his outstretched hand. He had intended to say, "How do you do, Mrs. Hutchinson?"--but somehow, the Mrs. Hutchinson had choked him, and all he had managed to articulate was the "How do you do?" There was all the constraint and awkwardness in the situation he could have wished. Mabel betrayed the agitation appropriate to her position, while Dora, evidently brought along as some sort of peacemaker, was saying:- "Why, what is the matter, Lawrence?" Before he could answer, Corry plucked him by the sleeve and drew him aside. "See here, old man, what's this mean?" Corry demanded in a low tone, indicating Lashka with his eyes. "I can hardly see, Corry, where you can have any concern in the matter," Pentfield answered mockingly. But Corry drove straight to the point. "What is that squaw doing on your sled? A nasty job you've given me to explain all this away. I only hope it can be explained away. Who is she? Whose squaw is she?" Then Lawrence Pentfield delivered his stroke, and he delivered it with a certain calm elation of spirit that seemed somewhat to compensate for the wrong that had been done him. "She is my squaw," he said; "Mrs. Pentfield, if you please." Corry Hutchinson gasped, and Pentfield left him and returned to the two women. Mabel, with a worried expression on her face, seemed holding herself aloof. He turned to Dora and asked, quite genially, as though all the world was sunshine:- "How did you stand the trip, anyway? Have any trouble to sleep warm?" "And, how did Mrs. Hutchinson stand it?" he asked next, his eyes on Mabel. "Oh, you dear ninny!" Dora cried, throwing her arms around him and hugging him. "Then you saw it, too! I thought something was the matter, you were acting so strangely." "I--I hardly understand," he stammered. "It was corrected in next day's paper," Dora chattered on. "We did not dream you would see it. All the other papers had it correctly, and of course that one miserable paper was the very one you saw!" "Wait a moment! What do you mean?" Pentfield demanded, a sudden fear at his heart, for he felt himself on the verge of a great gulf. But Dora swept volubly on. "Why, when it became known that Mabel and I were going to Klondike, EVERY OTHER WEEK said that when we were gone, it would be lovely on Myrdon Avenue, meaning, of course, lonely." "Then--" "I am Mrs. Hutchinson," Dora answered. "And you thought it was Mabel all the time--" "Precisely the way of it," Pentfield replied slowly. "But I can see now. The reporter got the names mixed. The Seattle and Portland paper copied."