After a while MacDonald rose softly, and tiptoed toward the door. Perhaps he could make his way to the bank unnoticed, and put the river between Simon’s ghost and himself. But Pierre was wide awake and staring at him in the gloaming of a Northern night. “I was just stretching a bit,” the big man offered in explanation, and Pierre did not even deign to tell him he lied. He sat up against the door now, and was eyeing the factor steadily, scornfully. The big man was nonplussed. What was Pierre’s game? How could he be so calm in a haunted spot? A mad hatred against him suddenly rose in MacDonald’s breast. He would brain this puny dolt with a blow of his fist, and say he had been drowned in the rapids. Then he would escape to the post and no soul would know of his weakness. Still Pierre sat looking at him with his gun across his knees. MacDonald cared little for the gun. There was at least a chance for him to take Pierre by surprise, and wrest the weapon from his grasp, and when had MacDonald been afraid to take chances? But there was something in Pierre’s gaze that cowed and subdued him. So he merely sat up facing Pierre and the door, with neither uttering a word.