In Pierre Breault's cabin he had not given voice to the suspicion that had flashed upon him.

He had kept it to himself, and Pierre, afraid to speak because of the horror of it, had remained as silent as he.

The thought oppressed him now.

He knew that human hair retained its life and its gloss indefinitely, and that Bram might have had the golden snare for years.

It was quite reasonable to suppose that he had bartered for it with some white man in the years before he had become an outlaw, and that some curious fancy or superstition had inspired him in its possession.