"How did you manage the affair--that fellow's ruin? It frightens me to realize that you can accomplish such things." The Count pushed his wife away. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. "Oh, very well! Carry it out if you wish," she said, with a careless shrug. "But you're not fooling me in the least. On the contrary, I admire your spirit. Now then, I'm thirsty. And you are, too." With a smile she evaded his outstretched arms and left the room. She was back in a moment with a bottle and two glasses. The latter she filled; her own she raised with a gesture, and Courteau blindly followed suit. In spite of his deep intoxication the man still retained the embers of suspicion, and when she spoke of Pierce Phillips they began to glow and threatened to burst into flame. Cunningly, persistently she played upon him, however. She enticed, she coquetted, she cajoled; she maddened him with her advances; she teased him with her repulses; she drugged him with her smiles, her fragrant charms. Time and again he was upon the point of surrender, but caught himself in time. She won at last. She dragged the story from him, bit by bit, playing upon his vanity, until he gabbled boastfully and took a crapulent delight in repeating the details. It was a tale distorted and confused, but the truth was there. She made an excuse to leave him, finally, and remained out of the room for a long time. When she returned it was to find him sprawled across her bed and fast asleep. For a moment she held dizzily to the bedpost and stared down at him. Her mask had slipped now, her face was distorted with loathing, and so deep were her feelings that she could not bear to touch him, even to cover him over. Leaving him spread-eagled as he was, she staggered out of his unclean presence. Hilda was deathly sick; objects were gyrating before her eyes; she felt a hideous nightmare sensation of unreality, and was filled with an intense contempt, a tragic disgust for herself. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she strove to gather herself together; then slowly, passionately she cursed the name of Pierce Phillips. CHAPTER XXVI Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk toiled slowly up the trail toward their cabin. Both men were bundled thickly in clothing, both bewhiskered visages bore grotesque breath-masks of ice; even their eyebrows were hoary with frost. The partners were very tired.