It was the man of the snow-dune, away up on the Barren, the man whom he had mistrusted from the beginning, and from whom they had fled into the face of the Big Storm months ago.

His mind worked swiftly, even as swiftly as Breault's in its way, and without any process of reasoning he sensed menace and enmity in this man's appearance, and associated with it the mysterious flight of Jolly Roger and Nada.
Breault had nodded, without speaking.

Then his eyes rested on Peter, and his face broke into a twisted sort of smile.

It was not altogether unpleasant, yet was there something about it which made one shiver.

It spoke the character of the man, pitiless, determined, omniscient almost, as if the spirit of a grim and unrelenting fate walked with him.
Again he nodded, and held out a hand.
"Peter," he called.