And now that Squint Rodaine was seeking her once more, Fairchild meant to follow, and to hear--if such a thing were within the range of human possibility--the evil drippings of his crooked lips.
He crossed to the side of the road where ran the inevitable gully and taking advantage of the shelter, hurried forward, smiling grimly in the darkness at the memory of the fact that things were now reversed; that he was following Squint Rodaine as Rodaine once had followed him.
Swiftly he moved, closer--closer; the scar-faced man went through the tumble-down gate and approached the house, not knowing that his pursuer was less than fifty yards away! A moment of cautious waiting then, in which Fairchild did not move.
Finally a light showed in an upstairs room of the house, and Fairchild, masking his own footprints in those made by Rodaine, crept to the porch.

Swiftly, silently, protected by the pad of snow on the soles of his shoes, he made the doorway and softly tried the lock.

It gave beneath his pressure, and he glided within the dark hallway, musty and dusty in its odor, forbidding, evil and dark.

A mountain rat, already disturbed by the entrance of Rodaine, scampered across his feet, and Fairchild shrunk into a corner, hiding himself as best he could in case the noise should cause an investigation from above.

But it did not.
Now Fairchild could hear voices, and in a moment more they became louder, as a door opened.
"It don't make any difference! I ain't going to stand for it! I tell you to do something and you go and make a mess of it! Why did n't you wait until they were both there ?" "I--I thought they were, Roady!" The woman's voice was whining, pleading.