more than half an acre, but it was conclusive evidence they
were again approaching a timber-line.

From the patch of spruce Bram struck due north, and for another hour
their trail was over the white Barren. Soon after this they came to a
fringe of scattered timber which grew steadily heavier and deeper as
they entered into it. They must have penetrated eight or ten miles into
the forest before the dawn came. And in that dawn, gray and gloomy,
they came suddenly upon a cabin.

Philip's heart gave a jump. Here, at last, would the mystery of the
golden snare be solved. This was his first thought. But as they drew
nearer, and stopped at the threshold of the door, he felt sweep over
him an utter disappointment. There was no life here. No smoke came from
the chimney and the door was almost buried in a huge drift of snow. His
thoughts were cut short by the crack of Bram's whip. The wolves swept
onward and Bram's insane laugh sent a weird and shuddering echo through
the forest.

From the time they left behind them the lifeless and snow-smothered
cabin Philip lost account of time and direction. He believed that Bram
was nearing the end of his trail. The wolves were dead tired. The
wolf-man himself was lagging, and since midnight had ridden more
frequently on the sledge. Still he drove on, and Philip searched with
increasing eagerness the trail ahead of them.

It was eight o'clock--two hours after they had passed the cabin--when
they came to the edge of a clearing in the center of which was a second
cabin. Here at a glance Philip saw there was life. A thin spiral of
smoke was rising from the chimney. He could see only the roof of the
log structure, for it was entirely shut in by a circular stockade of
saplings six feet high.

Twenty paces from where Bram stopped his team was the gate of the
stockade. Bram went to it, thrust his arm through a hole even with his
shoulders, and a moment later the gate swung inward. For perhaps a
space of twenty seconds he looked steadily at Philip, and for the first
time Philip observed the remarkable change that had come into his face.
It was no longer a face of almost brutish impassiveness. There was a
strange glow in his eyes. His thick lips were parted as if on the point
of speech, and he was breathing with a quickness which did not come of
physical exertion. Philip did not move or speak. Behind him he heard
the restless whine of the wolves. He kept his eyes on Bram, and as he
saw the look