Close to the lighted glass was pressed a man's face.

He caught a flashing glimpse of a pair of eyes staring in at them, of a thick, wild beard whitened by the snow.

He knew the face.
When life seemed slipping out of his throat he had looked up into it that night of the ambush on the Great North Trail.

There was the same hatred, the same demoniac fierceness in it now.
With a quick movement Howland sprang away from the girl and leveled his revolver to where the face had been.

Over the shining barrel he saw only the taunting emptiness of the storm.