Pierre had staggered to his feet. Opposite him, framed against the

open door filled with the wan whiteness of the snow, stood a spare,

tall figure. The man wore his fur collar turned up about his chin and

ears, his fur cap pulled down about his brow, a sharp aquiline nose

stood out above frozen mustaches, keen and brilliant eyes searched the

room. He carried his gun across his arm in readiness, and snuffed the

air like a suspicious hound. Then he advanced a step toward Pierre.

"What devil's work have you been at?" said he, his voice cutting the

ear in its sharpness of astonished rage, and his hand slid down along

the handle of his gun.

Pierre, watching him like a lynx, side-stepped, crouched, whipped out

his gun, and fired. At almost the same second the other's gun went

off. Pierre dropped.

This time Joan's nerves gave way and the room, with its smell of

scorched flesh, of powder, and of frost, went out from her horrified

senses. For a moment the stranger's stern face and brilliant eyes made

the approaching center of a great cloud of darkness, then it too went

out.




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