And then, even as he heard a grunting reply, his hand came in contact with the pocket which held Celie's little revolver.

He drew it quickly, cocked it under his back, and twisting his arm until the elbow-joint cracked, he fired.

It was a chance shot.

The powder-flash burned the murderous, thick-lipped face in the sealskin hood.

There was no cry, no sound that Philip heard.