And in going Bram had left a half of his blood-thirsty pack in
the corral. There was no longer a doubt in Philip's mind. They
were not the chance guests of this madman. They were prisoners.





CHAPTER XII




For a few minutes after the wolf-man and his hunters had gone from
the corral Philip did not move from the window. He almost forgot
that the girl was standing behind him. At no time since Pierre
Breault had revealed the golden snare had the situation been more
of an enigma to him than now. Was Bram Johnson actually mad--or
was he playing a colossal sham? The question had unleashed itself
in his brain with a suddenness that had startled him. Out of the
past a voice came to him distinctly, and it said, "A madman never
forgets!" It was the voice of a great alienist, a good friend of
his, with whom he had discussed the sanity of a man whose crime
had shocked the country. He knew that the words were true. Once
possessed by an idea the madman will not forget it. It becomes an
obsession with him--a part of his existence. In his warped brain a
suspicion never dies. A fear will smolder everlastingly. A hatred
lives steadily on.