And David, holding his breath, listened for the sound of another breath which he knew was in that room.

IX

For perhaps a minute Carrigan made no sound that could have been heard three feet away from him.  It was not fear that held him quiet.  It was something which he could not explain afterward, the sensation, perhaps, of one who feels himself confronted for a moment by a presence more potent than that of flesh and blood.  Black Roger Audemard!  Three times, twice in his sickness, some one had cried out that name in his ears since the hour when St. Pierre’s wife had ambushed him on the white carpet of sand.  And the voice was now in his room!

Was it Bateese, inspired by some sort of malformed humor?  Carrigan listened.  Another minute passed.  He reached out a hand and groped about him, very careful not to make a sound, urged by the feeling that some one was almost within reach of him.  He flung back his blanket and stood out in the middle of the floor.

Still he heard no movement, no soft footfalls of retreat or advance.  He lighted a match and held it high above his head.  In its yellow illumination he could see nothing alive.  He lighted a lamp.  The cabin was empty.  He drew a deep breath and went to the window.  It was still open.  The voice had undoubtedly come to him through that window, and he fancied he could see where the screen netting was crushed a bit inward, as though a face had pressed heavily against it.  Outside the night was beautifully calm.  The sky, washed by storm, was bright with stars.  But there was not a ripple of movement that he could hear.

After that he looked at his watch.  He must have been sleeping for some time when the voice roused him, for it was nearly three o’clock.  In spite of the stars, dawn was close at hand.  When he looked out of the window again they were paler and more distant.  He had no intention of going back to bed.  He was restless and felt himself surrendering more and more to the grip of presentiment.

It was still early, not later than six o’clock, when Bateese came in with his breakfast.  He was surprised, as he had heard no movement or sound of voices to give evidence of life anywhere near the bateau.  Instantly he made up his mind that it was not Bateese who had uttered the mysterious words of a few hours ago, for the half-breed had evidently experienced a most uncomfortable night.  He was like a rat recently pulled out of water.  His clothes hung upon him sodden and heavy, his head kerchief dripped, and his lank hair was wet.  He slammed the breakfast things down on the table and went out again without so much as nodding at his prisoner.

Again a sense of discomfort and shame swept over David, as he sat down to breakfast.  Here he was comfortably, even luxuriously, housed, while out there somewhere St. Pierre’s lovely wife was drenched and even more miserable than Bateese.  And the breakfast amazed him.  It was not so much the caribou tenderloin, rich in its own red juice, or the potato, or the pot of coffee that was filling the cabin with its aroma, that roused his wonder, but the hot, brown muffins that accompanied the other things.  Muffins!  And after a deluge that had drowned every square inch of the earth!  How had Bateese turned the trick?