Cassidy, the Irish bloodhound of "M" Division. If anyone ferreted
him out way down here on the edge of civilization he had gambled
with himself that it would be Cassidy. And Cassidy had come--
Cassidy, who had hung like a wolf to his trails for three years,
who had chased him across the Barren Lands, who had followed him
up the Mackenzie, and back again--who had fought with him, and
starved with him, and froze with him, yet had never brought him to
prison. Deep down in his heart Jolly Roger loved Cassidy. They had
played, and were still playing, a thrilling game, and to win that
game had become the life's ambition of each. And now Cassidy was
in there, confident that at last he had his man, and waiting for
him to step into the trap.

To Jolly Roger, in the face of its possible tragedy, there was a
deep-seated humor in the situation. Three times in the last year
and a half had he turned the tables on Cassidy, leaving him
floundering in the cleverly woven webs which the man-hunter had
placed for his victim. This was the fourth time. And Cassidy would
be tremendously upset!

Praying that Peter would remain quiet, Jolly Roger took off his
shoes. After that he made no more sound than a ferret as he crept
to the door. An inch at a time he raised himself, until he was
standing up, with his ear half an inch from the crack that ran
lengthwise of the frame. Holding his breath, he listened. For an
interminable time, it seemed to him, there was no sound from
within. He guessed what Cassidy was doing--peering through that
slit of window under the curtain. But he was not absolutely sure.
And he knew the necessity of making no error, with Cassidy in
there, gripping the butt of his gun.