In that darkness he heard a voice. It was
not the voice of Golden-Hair, or of Bateese, or of Jeanne Marie-
Anne. It was close to his ears. And in that darkness that
smothered him there was something terrible about it as it droned
slowly the words--"HAS-ANY-ONE-SEEN-BLACK-ROGER-AUDEMARD?" He
tried to answer, to call back to it, and the voice came again,
repeating the words, emotionless, hollow, as if echoing up out of
a grave. And still harder he struggled to reply to it, to say that
he was David Carrigan, and that he was out on the trail of Black
Roger Audemard, and that Black Roger was far north. And suddenly
it seemed to him that the voice changed into the flesh and blood
of Black Roger himself, though he could not see in the darkness--
and he reached out, gripping fiercely at the warm substance of
flesh, until he heard another voice, the voice of Jeanne Marie-
Anne Boulain, entreating him to let his victim go. It was this
time that his eyes shot open, wide and seeing, and straight over
him was the face of Jeanne Marie-Anne, nearer him than it had been
even in the visionings of his feverish mind. His fingers were
clutching her shoulders, gripping like steel hooks.
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