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 in a stern, cold-hearted way, inscrutable as a stone; a man such as women like for the romance they suggest, but seldom know. His voice was the most disagreeable attribute of the man, according to Barrett's appraisement of him, surly and insulting as his demeanor toward the greenhorn had been. It was a feline growl, delivered through lips scarcely open, a nasal note in it most jarring and disturbing.

At the first sound of Findlay's voice Barrett groped back in his memory for the chamber that stored a record of it, confident that he had seen this man before. Not until he heard his louder, sharper, more snarling tones when he directed the unloading of the body, could memory open the door to that long-locked compartment.

Not this man, but the mate of a South Seas trading achooner in the port of San Francisco. Barrett could see him again, warping his small vessel up to the dock, singing his orders in his high, feline voice through thin lips scarcely open; see the bare-shouldered Kanaka seamen leap to their labor with white-rolling eyes of fear. It was the same voice in two different men, both of them tigers at heart.

Nearing and Findlay went inside the long low cabin, built of cedar logs, where they sat at a table, a lamp between them, in deep conference. Nearing did most of the talking, Barrett could see, forceful talking at times, judged from his manual emphasis. Findlay wore his pistol strapped about his gaunt waist; Nearing was unarmed.

Findlay sat low in his chair, sliding forward like a