The taxi crunched away from the curb. “Here we are!” Ott announced somewhat unnecessarily. “You’re putting up here, Mr. Husack—you and the lady and your father, of course. Mr. Distelhorst, sir, you’re at the Pole Star Hotel. I think Mr. Husack and Mr. Kleet are stopping at Czar Kennedy’s house for a moment before lunch. The luncheon’s here in the banquet room off the café in about half an hour, ladies. Now let’s see, I think these are yours and these are yours and these are yours and these …”

Now the second car drew up behind them, Bridie Ballantyne’s face peered from the window. Hurriedly Ott continued. “I’ll help with some of these bags and things, glad to, we don’t have bellboys in Alaska except maybe Anchorage and Juneau. Chris”—he looked uncertainly at her—“Chris, you want to come along up and see if these folks are comfortable?”

She assumed her best Outside manner. “So sorry. I’ll have to leave you. It’s interesting—having you here. Interesting for us and for you, too, I hope.”

Bayard put a hand on her arm as though to hold her a moment. “But we’re going to see you at the luncheon, aren’t we? And how about that breakfast invitation you dangled?”

“Breakfast!” Dina interrupted, sharply. “I’m not the breakfast type.”

“Not even for sourdough pancakes?” Chris urged, sweetly. “My starter is fifteen years old, at least.”

“Starter?” Dina said, without curiosity.

Ott Decker paused a moment in his battle with the bags. “Say, that sourdough starter makes Chris the leading Alaska heiress. She got it from her Grandpa Thor Storm, and he got his from an old prospector who’d been living up in the hills for twenty years, using the same starter. You know what it is, don’t you, Miss Drake? Instead of yeast, a fermented mixture of flour and water that’s been standing around for God knows how—–”

Distelhorst now abruptly interrupted this culinary discourse. He had noticed that, although the second car was being relieved of its luggage, only Bridie Ballantyne and Oscar Bogard had descended from it.

“They putting up here, you say? Kleet and Husack?” Only Mayor Bogard was wrestling with the luggage—the handsome golden-brown leather that matched the color of Dave Husack’s cashmere coat; Sid Kleet’s scuffed black bag, very small, and the bulging and equally scuffed brief case which, after a beckoning hand reached out from the door, was returned quickly. Czar, benign and smiling, remained in the car. Dave Husack’s ruddy face peered from the rear window. Bridie, her jaw set, eyes snapping, was plunging toward the younger group.

“That’s right,” Decker said. “Heh, wait a minute, Oscar. I’ll give you a hand with those.”

Hurriedly Chris said, “Bridie will see that you’re comfortable, Dina. She’s wonderful. Anything you want. Twelve-thirty, the luncheon. Don’t be too late, will you.” She was off toward the little log cabin. You heard the dog’s shrill yapping as she approached.

“The boys say they’d a whole lot rather batch it over at Czar’s place,” Oscar Bogard bawled, “get some of that good Swede cooking Czar’s Gus sets up.”