He caught the white gleam of her bare shoulders under her
hair. And then, with a shock, he saw what was in her face.
It turned his blood cold. It was the look of a soul that had been
tortured. Agony and doubt burned in the eyes that were looking at
him. He had never seen such eyes. They were like violet amethysts.
Her face was dead white. It was beautiful. And she was young. She
was not over twenty, it flashed upon him--but she had gone through
a hell.
"Don't let me alarm you," he said, speaking gently. "I am Philip
Raine of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police."
It did not surprise him that she made no answer. As plainly as if
she had spoken it he had in those few swift moments read the story
in her face. His heart choked him as he waited for her lips to
move. It was a mystery to him afterward why he accepted the
situation so utterly as he stood there. He had no question to ask,
and there was no doubt in his mind. He knew that he would kill
Bram Johnson when the moment arrived.
The girl had not seemed to breathe, but now she drew in her breath
in a great gasp.
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