Pierre Breault's eyes, and not his words--and the curious twisting
and interlocking of his long slim fingers about the caribou-skin
bag in his hand stirred Philip with the thrill of a tense and
mysterious anticipation, and as he waited, uttering no word,
Pierre's fingers opened the sack, and he said:

"A rabbit snare, M'sieu, which had dropped from his pocket into
the snow--"

In another moment he had given it into Philip's hands. The oil
lamp was hung straight above them. Its light flooded the table
between them, and from Philip's lips, as he stared at the snare,
there broke a gasp of amazement. Pierre had expected that cry. He
had at first been disbelieved; now his face burned with triumph.
It seemed, for a space, as if Philip had ceased breathing. He
stared--stared--while the light from above him scintillated on the
thing he held. It was a snare. There could be no doubt of that. It
was almost a yard in length, with the curious Chippewyan loop at
one end and the double-knot at the other.

The amazing thing about it was that it was made of a woman's
golden hair.





CHAPTER III