the cry that had been on his lips was replaced by the strange, mad
laugh that Pierre Breault had described with a shiver of fear.

Without moving, Philip called after him:

"Bram--Bram Johnson--stop! In the name of the King--"

It was the old formula, the words that carried with them the
majesty and power of Law throughout the northland. Bram heard
them. But he did not stop. He sped on more swiftly, and again
Philip called his name.

"Bram--Bram Johnson--"

The laugh came back again. It was weird and chuckling, as though
Bram was laughing at him.

In the starlight Philip flung up his revolver. He did not aim to
hit. Twice he fired over Bram's head and shoulders, so close that
the fugitive must have heard the whine of the bullets.

"Bram--Bram Johnson!" he shouted a third time.

His pistol arm relaxed and dropped to his side, and he stood
staring after the great figure that was now no more than a shadow
in the gloom. And then it was swallowed up entirely. Once more he
was alone under the stars, encompassed by a world of nothingness.
He felt, all at once, that he had been a very great fool. He had
played his part like a child; even his voice had trembled as he
called out Bram's name. And Bram--even Bram--had laughed at him.