Now, in the daylight, she was still at the window.  There was no relief.  On the contrary.  With the smoke cleared from the smouldering ruins she saw the full extent of the wreckage.  It was sprawling everywhere, human and material.  An army of men, it seemed, was searching the battlefield.  It was searching and collecting amongst the ruins.  And she watched the bearing away on improvised stretchers, of still, helpless, human burdens which none could mistake.  She could bear no more of it.  She shut out the sight and fled from the window, covering her eyes with her hands.

But she was recalled almost instantly.  The sound of men’s rough voices startled her.  Whence came the sound she could not judge.  But it seemed to her it was from somewhere outside.  So she stealthily peered out.  It was a small group of fur-clad figures.  They were approaching the house over the snowy trail that came up from the mill.

New terror leapt.  They were supporting a prone, human body!  They were bringing it up to the house!  Who—­who could they be bringing up to that house, which was the home and the office of the master of the mill?  In that supreme moment all that which had gone before was completely forgotten.  She stood clutching at the window casing, in a desperate effort to steady herself.

She knew.  Oh, yes, it could be no other.  It must be Bull Sternford they were bringing up.  Bull Sternford—­the man who—­The agents of the Skandinavia had done him to death!  The agents of the Skandinavia!

* * * * *

Bat Harker was standing at the window of the office on the hill.  His hard, grey eyes were searching the distance below, and his square jaws were busy on their usual occupation.  Bull was sitting in a rocker-chair.  He was leaning forward, gazing down at the thickly carpeted floor, and his hands were clasped between his outspread knees.  Both men were dishevelled.  Their clothing was stained, and their hands and faces were begrimed as a result of the fierce work of the night.

Bat suddenly turned from his silent scrutiny.

“He’ll pull around?  You think so?” he demanded.

There was an appeal in his harsh voice such as Bull had never heard in it before, and he looked up with a start.

“That’s how Jason reckoned,” he said.

“Oh, to hell with Jason!” Bat’s retort was fiercely uncompromising.  “Who’s Jason anyway?  A medical student who hadn’t the guts for his job.  Leastways he got on the crook.  It’s the thing you reckon I want to know.”

“I reckon he’ll pull around,” Bull returned quietly.  Then he stirred wearily.  “But you’re hard on young Jason, Bat.  He’s bright enough.  I like the way he handles his job.  And anyway he’s the only feller around this layout with any knowledge of a sick man.  He’s qualified you know.  He wasn’t just a student.  He practised before he went down and out and took to the forests.  We’ve got to rely on him till we get a man up from Montreal, which won’t be for weeks.  He’ll be through along from fixing him in a while.  Then we can hear the thing he’s got to say.  Maybe we’ll be able to judge better then.”