Corporal Blake traveled fast, and it was afternoon of the second day when he came to the dense spruce forest that shut in Black Bear Lake.  Here something happened to change his plans somewhat.  He met an Indian he knew—­an Indian who, for two or three good reasons that stuck in the back of his head, dared not lie to him; and this tribesman, coming straight from the Thoreau cabin, told him that Jan was not at home, but had gone on a three-day trip to see the French missioner who lived on one of the lower Wholdaia waterways.

Blake was keen on strategem.  With him, man-hunting was like a game of chess; and after he had questioned the Indian for a quarter of an hour he saw his opportunity.  Pastamoo, the Cree, was made a part of his Majesty’s service on the spot, with the promise of torture and speedy execution if he proved himself a traitor.

Blake turned over to him his dogs and sledge, his provisions, and his tent, and commanded him to camp in the heart of a cedar swamp a few miles back, with the information that he would return for his outfit at some time in the indefinite future.  He might be gone a day or a week.  When he had seen Pastamoo off, he continued his journey toward the cabin, in the hope that Jan Thoreau’s wife was either an Indian or a fool.  He was too old a hand at his game to be taken in by the story that had been told to the Cree.

Jan had not gone to the French missioner’s.  A murderer’s trail would not be given away like that.  Of course the wife knew.  And Corporal Blake desired no better string to a criminal than the faith of a wife.  Wives were easy if handled right, and they had put the finishing touch to more than one of his great successes.

At the edge of the lake he fell back on his old trick—­hunger, exhaustion, a sprained leg.  It was not more than a quarter of a mile across the snow-covered ice of the lake to the thin spiral of smoke that he saw rising above the thick balsams on the island.  Five times in that distance he fell upon his face; he crawled like a man about to die.  He performed an arduous task, a devilish task, and when at last he reached the balsams he cursed his luck until he was red in the face.  No one had seen him.  That quarter-mile of labor was lost, its finesse a failure.  But he kept up the play, and staggered weakly through the sheltering balsams to the cabin.  His artifice had no shame, even when played on women; and he fell heavily against the door, beat upon it with his fist; and slipped down into the snow, where he lay with his head bowed, as if his last strength was gone.

He heard movement inside, quick steps—­and then the door opened.  He did not look up for a moment.  That would have been crude.  When he did raise his head, it was very slowly, with a look of anguish in his face.  And then—­he stared.  His body all at once grew tense, and the counterfeit pain in his eyes died out like a flash in this most astounding moment of his life.  Man of iron though he was, steeled to the core against the weaknesses of sudden emotions, it was impossible for him to restrain the gasp of amazement that rose to his lips.