The face into which he gazed was that of Clinton Kendale, his cousin.
"You!" he gasped, quite disbelieving the evidence of his own senses.
Kendale laughed a diabolical laugh, while his features were distorted into those of a fiend incarnate.
"I haven't the least hesitation in admitting my identity," he said, coolly.

"Yes, you are in good hands, if you give us no trouble, and come along quietly, without compelling us to use further force." "What is the meaning of this outrage ?" cried Lester, white to the lips.
"That you shall learn all in good time, cousin mine," replied Kendale, mockingly.
In struggling out of their grasp to better protect himself, Lester fell headlong on the icy ground, striking his head heavily against the gnarled, projecting root of a tree and lying at their feet like one dead.
"He will give us little enough trouble now," said Kendale, grimly.

"Lend a hand there, both of you, and get him into the house quickly.

I am almost frozen to death here." In less time than it takes to narrate it, Lester Armstrong was hurriedly conveyed into the house.
The place consisted of but two rooms, and into the inner one Lester was thrust with but little ceremony, and tossed upon a pallet of straw in the corner.
He had not entirely lost consciousness, as they supposed, but was only stunned, realizing fully all that was transpiring about him.
"Your scheme has worked like a charm, Halloran," said Kendale.

"We have bagged our game more easily than I imagined we would.