small open. In an instant it seemed as
though his heart had leapt from his breast into his throat, and was
choking him. Within fifty paces of him were both Lang and Thoreau. But
for a moment he scarcely saw them, or the powerful team of eight
huskies, harnessed and waiting. For on the sledge, a cloth bound about
her mouth, her hands tied behind her, was Josephine!

At sight of her Philip did not pause to plan an attack. The one thought
that leapt into his brain like fire was that Lang and Thoreau had
fooled the forest people--Josephine had not been taken to the Devil's
Nest, and the two were attempting to get away with her.

A cry burst from his lips as he ran from cover. Instantly the pair were
facing him. Lang was still panting from his run. He held no weapons. In
the crook of Thoreau's arm rested a rifle. Swift as a flash he raised
it to his shoulder, the muzzle levelled at Philip's breast. Josephine
had turned. From her smothered lips came a choking cry of agony. Philip
had now raised his automatic. It was level with his waistline. From
that position he had trained himself to fire with the deadly precision
that is a part of the training of the men of the Royal Northwest
Mounted. Before Thoreau's forefinger had pressed the trigger of his
rifle a stream of fire shot out from the muzzle of the automatic.

Thoreau did not move. Then a shudder passed through him. His rifle
dropped from his nerveless hands. Without a moan he crumpled down into
the snow. Three of the five bullets that had flashed like lightning
from the black-muzzled Savage had passed completely through his body.
It had all happened in a space so short that Lang had not stirred. Now
he found himself looking into that little engine of death. With a cry
of fear he staggered back.

Philip did not fire. He felt in himself now the tigerish madness that
had been in John Adare. To him Thoreau had been no more than a wolf,
one of the many at Devil's Nest. Lang was different. For all things
this monster was accountable. He had no desire to shoot. He wanted to
reach him with his HANDS--to choke the life from him slowly, to hear
from his own blackening lips the confession that had come through Jean
Croisset.

He knew that Josephine was on her feet now, that she was struggling to
free her hands, but it was only in a swift glance that he saw this. In
the same breath he had dropped his pistol and was at Lang's throat.
They went down together. Even Thoreau, a giant