nce in his life
his forethought had failed him. He was too late. There was the swift
opening and shutting of the door and a man stood inside the room with
his back against it. But it was not Marcel. A heavy gun was thrusting
forward, and the muzzle of it was covering Steve's body. Helpless,
impotent, the man who had taken and survived every chance the Northern
world could offer him, stood like any weakling awaiting the shot that
must rob him of life in the hour of his triumph.

Steve stared wide-eyed. The man was no taller than himself. He was
white, and above his fur clothing was a dark, brutish face with eyes of
almost Indian blackness. For a moment they shone fiercely in the
lamplight. They were alive with demoniac purpose. A purpose he had come
so many weary miles to fulfil. Then, in a moment, the whole picture
changed with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope.

The ferocious purpose in the black eyes faded to a ghastly terror. The
lids widened, and the eyeballs rolled upwards. A voiceless gasp escaped
through wide open lips, where a moment before they had been firm set
with murderous intent. The out-held gun-arm dropped, and the weapon
clattered heavily to the ground. The man reeled. He tottered forward.
Then, with a sigh, a deep drawn sigh, his knees gave under him and he
plunged face downwards amongst the litter of the Adresol whose secret he
had come to steal. The deadly drug had done its work.

* * * * *

Steve passed down the room. He came to a stand beside the body of the
man, fallen with its face buried amidst the bruised and oozing Adresol.
His features were lost in the very heart of a limply spread white bloom.
It was as though he were seeking to intake the very dregs of the poison
with which the air was laden.

Steve stooped. Seizing the heavy body in his strong arms he dragged it
clear of the weed, and laid it upon its back. Then he stood up and gazed
down from behind his mask upon the lifeless face that gazed sightlessly
up at him.

In those long, silent, contemplative moments memory leapt back, bridging
the weary years. There was neither passion nor pity in his heart. It
was almost as if all feeling had passed from him, absorbed in a deep
curiosity at the signs which the years had set upon a once handsome
face. Even in death they remained. And only a dreadful pallor robbed it
of the deeper signs which debauchery had impressed.

Yes. Death had been merciful in that it ha