His mind did not finish that final argument.  The end of it smashed upon him in another way.  The door came within his vision.  As it swung inward he could not at first see whether it was open or closed.  Leaning against the logs close to the door was a pair of long snowshoes and a bundle of javelins.  A sickening disappointment swept over him as he stared at the javelins.  A giant Eskimo and not a white man had made the trail they had followed.  Their race against time had brought them straight to the rendezvous of their foes—­and there would be no guns.  In that moment when all the hopes he had built up seemed slipping away from under him he could see no other possible significance in the presence of the javelins.  Then, for an instant, he held his breath and sniffed the air like a dog getting the wind.  The cabin door was open.  And out through that door came the mingling aroma of coffee and tobacco!  An Eskimo might have tobacco, or even tea.  But coffee—­never!

Every drop of blood in his body pounded like tiny beating fists as he crossed silently and swiftly the short space between the corner of the cabin and the open door.  For perhaps half a dozen seconds he closed his eyes to give his snow-strained vision an even chance with the man in the cabin.  Then he looked in.

It was a small cabin.  It was possibly not more than ten feet square inside, and at the far end of it was a fireplace from which rose the chimney through the roof.  At first Philip saw nothing except the dim outlines of things.  It was a moment or two before he made out the figure of a man stooping over the fire.  He stepped over the threshold, making no sound.  The occupant of the cabin straightened himself slowly, lifting with, extreme care a pot of coffee from the embers.  A glance at his broad back and his giant stature told Philip that he was not an Eskimo.  He turned.  Even then for an infinitesimal space he did not see Philip as he stood fronting the door with the light in his face.  It was a white man’s face—­a face almost hidden in a thick growth of beard and a tangle of hair that fell to the shoulders.  Another instant and he had seen the intruder and stood like one turned suddenly into stone.

Philip had leveled Celie’s little revolver.

“I am Philip Raine of His Majesty’s service, the Royal Mounted,” he said.  “Throw, up your hands!”

The moment’s tableau was one of rigid amazement on one side, of waiting tenseness on the other.  Philip believed that the shadow of his body concealed the size of the tiny revolver in his hand.  Anyway it would be effective at that distance, and he expected to see the mysterious stranger’s hands go over his head the moment he recovered from the shock that had apparently gone with the command.  What did happen he expected least of all.  The arm holding the pot of steaming coffee shot out and the boiling deluge hissed straight at Philip’s face.  He ducked to escape it, and fired.  Before he