"Deserts are usually hot."
DeVoe shivered. "Not this one, at this season. It's a hell of a country, Butler; five thousand feet elevation, biting winds, blizzards, and all that. You just can't keep warm. But the danger is in the Poganip."
"The what?"
"The Poganip; what they call 'the Breath of Death' out there. It's a sort of frozen fog peculiar to that locality."
"Then you accept my offer?"
Again DeVoe hesitated. "Are you really going to do it? Well then, yes. If I don't take your money, I suppose you'll employ somebody else."
"Good! We'll leave to-morrow."
"Can you get your affairs in shape by then?"
"I don't want them in shape. Don't you understand?"
"I see." After a moment the younger man continued, "It's all very well for us to plan this way—but I'm not sure we'll succeed in our enterprise."