From the time they left behind them the lifeless and snow-smothered cabin Philip lost account of time and direction.  He believed that Bram was nearing the end of his trail.  The wolves were dead tired.  The wolf-man himself was lagging, and since midnight had ridden more frequently on the sledge.  Still he drove on, and Philip searched with increasing eagerness the trail ahead of them.

It was eight o’clock—­two hours after they had passed the cabin—­ when they came to the edge of a clearing in the center of which was a second cabin.  Here at a glance Philip saw there was life.  A thin spiral of smoke was rising from the chimney.  He could see only the roof of the log structure, for it was entirely shut in by a circular stockade of saplings six feet high.

Twenty paces from where Bram stopped his team was the gate of the stockade.  Bram went to it, thrust his arm through a hole even with his shoulders, and a moment later the gate swung inward.  For perhaps a space of twenty seconds he looked steadily at Philip, and for the first time Philip observed the remarkable change that had come into his face.  It was no longer a face of almost brutish impassiveness.  There was a strange glow in his eyes.  His thick lips were parted as if on the point of speech, and he was breathing with a quickness which did not come of physical exertion.  Philip did not move or speak.  Behind him he heard the restless whine of the wolves.  He kept his eyes on Bram, and as he saw the look of joy and anticipation deepening in the wolf-man’s face the appalling thought of what it meant sickened him.  He clenched his hands.  Bram did not see the act.  He was looking again toward the cabin and at the spiral of smoke rising out of the chimney.

Then he faced Philip, and said,

“M’sieu, you go to ze cabin.”

He held the gate open, and Philip entered.  He paused to make certain of Bram’s intention.  The wolf-man swept an arm about the enclosure.

“In ze pit I loose ze wolve, m’sieu.”

Philip understood.  The stockade enclosure was Bram’s wolf-pit, and Bram meant that he should reach the cabin before he gave the pack the freedom of the corral.  He tried to conceal the excitement in his face as he turned toward the cabin.  From the gate to the door ran a path worn by many footprints, and his heart beat faster as he noted the smallness of the moccasin tracks.  Even then his mind fought against the possibility of the thing.  Probably it was an Indian woman who lived with Bram, or an Eskimo girl he had brought down from the north.

He made no sound as he approached the door.  He did not knock, but opened it and entered, as Bram had invited him to do.

From the gate Bram watched the cabin door as it closed behind him, and then he threw back his head and such a laugh of triumph came from his lips that even the tired beasts behind him pricked up their ears and listened.

And Philip, in that same moment, had solved the mystery of the golden snare.