He dropped these meditations as he thought of the mysterious man

he was following. During the course of his two years in the

Service he had picked up a great many odds and ends in the history

of Bram's life, and in the lives of the Johnsons who had preceded

him. He had never told any one how deeply interested he was. He

had, at times, made efforts to discuss the quality of Bram's

intelligence, but always he had failed to make others see and

understand his point of view. By the Indians and half-breeds of

the country in which he had lived, Bram was regarded as a monster

of the first order possessed of the conjuring powers of the devil

himself. By the police he was earnestly desired as the most

dangerous murderer at large in all the north, and the lucky man

who captured him, dead or alive, was sure of a sergeantcy.

Ambition and hope had run high in many valiant hearts until it was

generally conceded that Bram was dead.

Philip was not thinking of the sergeantcy as he kept steadily

along the edge of the Barren. His service would shortly be up, and

he had other plans for the future. From the moment his fingers had

touched the golden strand of hair he had been filled with a new

and curious emotion. It possessed him even more strongly to-day

than it had last night. He had not given voice to that emotion, or

to the thoughts it had roused, even to Zamadol. Perhaps he was

ridiculous. But he possessed imagination, and along with that a

great deal of sympathy for animals--and some human beings. He had,

for the time, ceased to be the cool and calculating man-hunter

intent on the possession of another's life. He knew that his duty

was to get Bram and take him back to headquarters, and he also

knew that he would perform his duty when the opportunity came--

unless he had guessed correctly the significance of the golden

snare.