if in pursuit of the sound that had
gone before. She raised a mittened hand to him in ironic salutation.
She seemed to beckon, north--north--into the Silence. Crossman shook
himself. What was this miasma in his heart? He inhaled the vital air
and felt the rush of his blood in answer, realizing the splendour of
this beautiful, intensely living world of white and green, of sparkle
and prismatic brilliance. Its elemental power like the urge of the
world's youth.

But Aurore? His brain still heard the echo of her laugh. He cursed
savagely under his breath, and turned his back upon the Cure, unable
to face the scrutiny of those kind, troubled eyes.

"Jakapa will be here presently," he said over his shoulder. "That gong
carries ten miles if there's no wind. One ring, that's for the Boss;
two, call in for the whole gang; three, alarm--good as a telegraph or
the telephone as far as it goes. Meanwhile, if you'll excuse me, I'll
have a look at the larder."

Without a doubt, he reasoned, Aurore would have left their mid-day
meal ready. She would not return, he knew, until the guest had gone.
In the little overheated cook-house he found the meal set out. All was
in order. Then his eye caught a singular decoration fastened to the
door, a paper silhouette, blackened with charcoal, the shape of a
cassocked priest. The little cut-out paper doll figure was pinned to
the wood by a short, sharp kitchen knife driven viciously deep, and
the handle, quivering with the closing of the door, gave the illusion
that the hand that had delivered the blow must have only at that
instant been withdrawn.

Crossman shivered. He knew that world-old formula of hate; he knew of
its almost innocent use in many a white caban, but its older, deeper
meaning of demoniacal incantation rushed to his mind, somehow blending
with the wizardry with which he surrounded his thoughts of the strange
woman.

A step outside crunching in the snow. The door opened, revealing
Antoine Marceau. The huge form of the log-brander towered above him.
He could not read the expression of the eyes behind the square-cupped
snow spectacles.

"She tell me, Aurore," he rumbled, "that I am to come. We have the
company."

"Yes, the Cure of Portage Dernier." Crossman watched him narrowly.

Antoine took off the protecting wooden blinders and thrust them in his
pocket.

Crossman stood aside, hesitating. Antoine drew off his mittens with
businesslike precision, and placed a huge, c