"You want--talk," said Bram, speaking as if each word cost him a
certain amount of effort. "Why--talk?"

"I wanted to ask you why it was that you killed a man down in the
God's Lake country."

The words were out before Philip could stop them. A growl rose in
Bram's chest. It was like the growl of a beast. The greenish fire
in his eyes grew brighter.

"Ze poleece," he said. "KA, ze poleece--like kam from Churchill
an' ze wolve keel!"

Philip's hand was fumbling in his pocket. The wolves were behind
him and he dared not turn to look. It was their ominous silence
that filled him with dread. They were waiting--watching--their
animal instinct telling them that the command for which they
yearned was already trembling on the thick lips of their master.
The revolver and the knife dropped from Bram's hand. He held only
the whip and the club.

Philip drew forth the wallet.

"You lost something--when you camped that night near Pierre
Breault's cabin," he said, and his own voice seemed strange and
thick to him. "I've followed you--to give it back. I could have
killed you if I had wanted to--when I fired over your head. But I
wanted to stop you. I wanted to give you--this."

He held out to Bram the golden snare.