“It is unusual,” he said.  “Jean is very careful to leave word of his movements.  Metoosin says it is possible he went after fresh caribou meat.  But that is not so.  His rifle is in his room.  He left during the night, or he would have spoken to us.  I saw him as late as midnight, and he made no mention of it then.  It has been snowing for two or three hours or I would send Metoosin on his trail.”

“What possible cause for worry can you have?” asked Philip.

“Thoreau’s cutthroats,” replied Adare, a sudden fire in his eyes.  “This winter may see—­things happen.  The force behind Thoreau’s success in trade is whisky.  That damnable stuff is his lure, or all the fur in this country would come to Adare House.  If he could drive me out he would have nothing to fight against—­his hands would be at the throat of every living soul in these regions, and all through whisky.  Among those who were killed or turned up missing last winter were four of my best hunters.  Twice Jean was shot at on the trail.  I fear for him because he is my right arm.”

When Philip left Adare he went to his room, put on heavier moccasins, and went quietly from the house.  Three inches of fresh snow had fallen, and the air was thick with the white deluge.  He hurried into the edge of the forest.  A few minutes futile searching convinced him of the impossibility of following the trail made by Jean and the man he had pursued.  Through the thickening darkness he returned to Adare House.

Again he changed his moccasins, and waited for the expected word from Josephine or Adare.  Half an hour passed, and during this time his mind became still more uneasy.  He had hoped that Croisset was hanging in the edge of the forest, waiting for darkness.  Each minute now added to his fear that all had not gone well with the half-breed.  He paced up and down his room, smoking, and looking at his watch frequently.  After a time he went to the window and tried to peer out into the white swirl of the night.  The opening of his door turned him about.  He expected to see Adare.  Words that were on his lips froze in a moment of speechless horror.

He knew that it was Jean Croisset who stood before him.  But it did not look like Jean.  The half-breed’s cap was gone.  He was swaying, clutching at the partly opened door to support himself.  His face was disfigured with blood, the front of his coat was spattered with frozen clots of it.  His long hair had fallen in ropelike strands over his eyes and frozen there.  His lips were terrible.

“Good God!” gasped Philip.

He sprang forward and caught Jean as the half-breed staggered toward him.  Jean’s body hung a weight in his arms.  His legs gave way under him, but for a moment the clutch of his fingers on Philip’s shoulder were viselike.

“A little help, M’sieur,” he gasped.  “I am faint, sick.  Whatever happens, as you love Our Lady, let no one know of this to-night!”