knew what to expect. Perhaps complete darkness, and the sound of
stertorous, drugged slumber. That which was revealed, however, came as a
complete surprise.

The first thing he became aware of was light, and a reeking atmosphere
of burning oil. The next was the warmth and flicker of two wood fires.
And after that a general odour which he recognized at once. It was the
same heavy, pungent aroma that pervaded the fort where the dead chemist
stored the small but precious quantities of the strange weed he traded.

They stepped cautiously within, and stood in silent contemplation of the
fantastic picture revealed by the three primitive lights. They emanated
from what looked like earthenware bowls of oil, upon which some sort of
worsted wicks were floating. These were augmented by the ruddy flicker
of two considerable wood fires, which burned within circular embankments
constructed on the hard earthen floor.

The lights and fires were a revelation to the man, and he wondered at
them, and the means by which they were tended. But his speculations were
quickly swallowed up by the greater interest of the rest of the scene.

The hut was large. Far larger than might have been supposed; and Steve
estimated it at something like thirty feet long by twenty wide. The roof
was thatched with reedy grass, bound down with thongs of rawhide to the
sapling rafters. The ridge of the pitched roof was supported by two
tree-trunks, which had been cut to the desired height, and left rooted
in the ground, while the two ends of it rested upon the end walls. The
walls themselves were constructed of thick mud plaster, overlaying a
foundation of laced willow branches. The whole construction was of
unusual solidity, and the smoke-blackened thatch yielded two holes,
Indian fashion, through which the fire smoke was permitted exit.

But Steve's main interest lay in the drug-suspended life which the place
contained. It was there, still, silent. It lay in two rows down the
length of either side of the great interior. In the dim light he counted
it. There were forty-two distinct piles of furs, each yielding the rough
outline of a prone human figure beneath it. Each figure was deathly
still. And the whole suggested some primitive mortuary, with its
freight, awaiting identification.

For many moments Steve remained powerless to withdraw his fascinated
gaze. And all the while he was thinking of Julyman, and the story he had
been told so long ago. He remembe