It was a good joke he had played on him—­first a bit of pneumonia, then a set of bad lungs afflicted with that “galloping” something-or-other that hollows one’s cheeks and takes the blood out of one’s veins.  It was then that the horror had grown larger and larger each day in Mignon’s big baby-blue eyes, until she came out with childish frankness and said that it was terribly embarrassing to have one’s friends know that one was engaged to a consumptive.

Philip laughed as he thought of that.  The laugh came so suddenly and so explosively that Bram could have heard it a hundred yards away, even with the wind blowing as it was.  A consumptive!  Philip doubled up his arm until the hard muscles in it snapped.  He drew in a deep lungful of air, and forced it out again with a sound like steam escaping from a valve.  The north had done that for him; the north with its wonderful forests, its vast skies, its rivers, and its lakes, and its deep snows—­the north that makes a man out of the husk of a man if given half a chance.  He loved it.  And because he loved it, and the adventure of it, he had joined the Police two years ago.  Some day he would go back, just for the fun of it; meet his old friends in his old clubs, and shock baby-eyed Mignon to death with his good health.

He dropped these meditations as he thought of the mysterious man he was following.  During the course of his two years in the Service he had picked up a great many odds and ends in the history of Bram’s life, and in the lives of the Johnsons who had preceded him.  He had never told any one how deeply interested he was.  He had, at times, made efforts to discuss the quality of Bram’s intelligence, but always he had failed to make others see and understand his point of view.  By the Indians and half-breeds of the country in which he had lived, Bram was regarded as a monster of the first order possessed of the conjuring powers of the devil himself.  By the police he was earnestly desired as the most dangerous murderer at large in all the north, and the lucky man who captured him, dead or alive, was sure of a sergeantcy.  Ambition and hope had run high in many valiant hearts until it was generally conceded that Bram was dead.

Philip was not thinking of the sergeantcy as he kept steadily along the edge of the Barren.  His service would shortly be up, and he had other plans for the future.  From the moment his fingers had touched the golden strand of hair he had been filled with a new and curious emotion.  It possessed him even more strongly to-day than it had last night.  He had not given voice to that emotion, or to the thoughts it had roused, even to Pierre.  Perhaps he was ridiculous.  But he possessed imagination, and along with that a great deal of sympathy for animals—­and some human beings.  He had, for the time, ceased to be the cool and calculating man-hunter intent on the possession of another’s life.  He knew that his duty was to get Bram and take him back to headquarters, and he also knew that he would perform his duty when the opportunity came—­ unless he had guessed correctly the significance of the golden snare.