against the pane: dark, sinister, with eyes that shone with the
menacing glare of a beast. In a flash it was gone. But in that
brief space Philip had seen enough to hold him like one turned to
stone, still staring where the face had been, his heart beating
like a hammer. As the face disappeared he had seen a hand pass
swiftly through the light, and in the hand was a pistol. It was
not this fact, nor the suddenness of the apparition, that drew the
gasping breath from his lips. It was the face, filled with a
hatred that was almost madness--the face of Jean Jacques Croisset!

Scarcely was it gone when Philip sprang to the table, snatched up
his automatic, and ran out into the hall. The end of the hall he
believed opened outdoors, and he ran swiftly in that direction,
his moccasined feet making no sound. He found a door locked with
an iron bar. It took him but a moment to throw this up, open the
door, and leap out into the night. The wind had died away, and it
was snowing. In the silence he stood and listened, his eyes trying
to find some moving shadow in the gloom. His fighting blood was
up. His one impulse now was to come face to face with Jean
Croisset and demand an explanation. He knew that if he had stood
another moment with his back to the window Jean would have killed
him. Murder was in the half-breed's eyes. His pistol was ready.
Only Philip's quick turning from the door had saved him. It was
evident that Jean had fled from the window as quickly as Philip
had run out into the hall. Or, if he had not fled, he was hiding
in the gloom of the building. At the thought that Jean might be
crouching in the shadows Philip turned suddenly and moved swiftly
and silently along the log wall of Adare House. He half expected a
shot out of the darkness, and with his thumb he pressed down the
safety lever of his automatic. He had almost reached his own