is throat. Recognition flashed upon him in an
instant. It was the man of the snow-dune, away up on the Barren, the man
whom he had mistrusted from the beginning, and from whom they had fled
into the face of the Big Storm months ago. His mind worked swiftly, even
as swiftly as Breault's in its way, and without any process of reasoning
he sensed menace and enmity in this man's appearance, and associated
with it the mysterious flight of Jolly Roger and Nada.

Breault had nodded, without speaking. Then his eyes rested on Peter,
and his face broke into a twisted sort of smile. It was not altogether
unpleasant, yet was there something about it which made one shiver. It
spoke the character of the man, pitiless, determined, omniscient almost,
as if the spirit of a grim and unrelenting fate walked with him.

Again he nodded, and held out a hand.

"Peter," he called. "Come here, Peter!"

Peter flattened his ears a fraction of an inch, but did not move. Even
that fraction of an inch caught Breault's keen eyes.

"Still a one-man dog," he observed, stepping well inside the cabin, and
facing Father John. "Where is McKay, Father?"

He had not closed the door, and Peter saw his chance. The Leaf Bud saw
him pass like a shot out into the night, but as he went she made no
effort to call him back, for her ears were wide open as Breault repeated
his question,

"Where is McKay, Father?"

Peter heard the man-hunter's voice from the darkness outside. For barely
an instant he paused, picking up the fresh scent of Nada and Jolly
Roger. It was easy to follow--straight to the pool, and from the pool
twenty paces down-stream, where a little finger of sand and pebbles had
been formed by the eddies. In this bar was fresh imprint of the canoe,
and here the footprints ended.

Peter whimpered, peering into the tunnel of darkness between forest
trees, where the water rippled and gurgled softly on its way into
a deeper and more tangled wilderness. He waded belly-deep into the
current, half determined to swim; and then he waited, listening
intently, but could hear no sound of voice or paddle stroke.

Yet he knew Jolly Roger and Nada could not be far away.

He returned to the edge of the pool, and began sniffing his way
down-stream, pausing every two or three minutes to listen. Now and
then he caught the presence of those he sought, in the air, but those
intervals in which he stopped to catch sound of voice or paddle lost him
time, so the canoe