rey; it
is like the night cry of the puma that shrinks at the blaze of the
camp-fire; it is fierce, terrible. The house is empty.

But the cunning of the madman does not desert him. He sets out to
search, peering here, there, and everywhere. As the moments pass, and no
living thing is to be seen within, his anger rises like a fierce summer
storm. He stands in the centre of the store which is filled with a
disordered array of stuffs. His eyes light upon the wooden trap which
opens upon the cellar where Victor stores his skins. Once more the fire
flares up in his dreadful eyes. An oil-lamp is upon a shelf. He dashes
towards it, and soon its dull, yellow flame sheds its feeble rays about.
He stoops and prises up the heavy square of wood. Below sees the top
rungs of a rough ladder. His poor brain is incapable of argument and
with a fierce joy he clambers down into the dank, earthy atmosphere of
the cellar.

All is silent again except for the shuffling of his almost bare feet
upon the uneven ladder. The last rung is gone, and he drops heavily to
the ground. Then, for awhile, silence reigns.

During that silence there comes a figure stealing round the angle at the
back of the building. It is a slight, dark figure, and it moves with
extreme caution. There is a look on the narrow face which is one of
superstitious horror. It is Victor Gagnon escaped from his prison, and
he advances haltingly, for he has seen the approach of his uncanny
visitor, and he knows not what to do. His inclination is to flee, yet is
he held fascinated. He advances no further than the front angle of the
building, where he stands shaking with nervous apprehension.

Suddenly he hears a cry that is half-stifled by distance, for it comes
from the depths of the cellar within. Then follows a metallic clatter of
something falling, which, in turn, is followed again by a cry that is
betwixt a fierce exclamation of joy and a harsh laugh. A foreboding
wrings the heart of the half-breed trader.

Now he listens with every sense aiding him, and a strange sound comes to
his ears. It is a sound like the rushing of water or the sighing of the
wind through the skeleton branches of forest-trees. It grows louder,
and, in its midst, he hears the stumbling of feet within the house.
Something, he knows not what, makes him look about him fearfully, but he
remains at his post. He dare not move.

At last he thrusts his head forward and peers round the corner so that
he has