The Alaskan (Western Classic). James Oliver Curwood
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to see cities and railroads and automobiles come to Alaska. He shrugged his shoulders. Probably she had guessed what was in his own mind, for she was clever, very clever.
A tap at his door drew his eyes from the open watch in his hand. It was a quarter after twelve o'clock, an unusual hour for someone to be tapping at his door.
It was repeated--a bit hesitatingly, he thought. Then it came again, quick and decisive. Replacing his watch in his pocket, he opened the door.
It was Mary Standish who stood facing him.
He saw only her eyes at first, wide-open, strange, frightened eyes. And then he saw the pallor of her face as she came slowly in, without waiting for him to speak or give her permission to enter. And it was Mary Standish herself who closed the door, while he stared at her in stupid wonderment--and stood there with her back against it, straight and slim and deathly pale.
"May I come in?" she asked.
"My God, you're in!" gasped Alan. "You're in."
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