 CHAPTER VII Phillip stood undecided, his ears strained to catch the slightest sound. Ten minutes had not elapsed since he had dropped the handkerchief. Pierre could not have gone far among the rocks. It was possible that he was concealed somewhere near him now. Softly he called his name. Pierre! Oh! Pierre Couché! There was no answer, and in the next breath he was sorry that he had called. He went silently down the trail. He had come to the edge of Churchill when once more he heard the howl of the dog far back in the forest. He stopped to locate as nearly as he could the point once the sound came, for he was certain now that the dog had not returned with Pierre, but had remained with Jean and was howling from their camp. Gregson was awake and sitting in the edge of his bunk when Phillip entered the cabin. Where the deuce of you been? he demanded. I was just trying to make up my mind to go out and hunt for you. Stolen, lost, or something like that? I've been thinking, said Phillip truthfully. So have I, said Gregson. Ever since you came back, wrote that letter and went out again. You were asleep, corrected Phillip. I looked at you. Perhaps I was when you looked, but I have a hazy recollection of you sitting there at the table, writing like a fiend. Anyway, I've been thinking ever since you went out of the door, and I'd like to read that Lord Fitzhugh letter again. Phillip handed in the letter. He was quite sure from his friend's manner of speaking that he had seen nothing of the handkerchief and the lace. Gregson seized the paper lazily, yawned, and slipped it under the blanket which he had doubled up for a pillow. Do you mind if I keep it for a few days, Phil? he asked. Not in the least, if you'll tell me why you want it, said Phillip. I will, when I discover a reason myself, replied his friend coolly, stretching himself out again in the bunk. Remember when I dreamed that caribobo planter was sticking a knife into you, Phil? And the next day he tried it? Well, I've had a funny dream. I want to sleep on this letter. I may want to sleep on it for a week. Better turn in if you expect to get a wink between now and morning. For half an hour after he had undressed and extinguished the light, Phillip lay awake reviewing the incidents of his night's adventure. He was certain that his letter was in the hands of Pierre and Jean, but he was not so sure that they would respond to it. He half expected that they would not, and yet he felt a deep sense of satisfaction in what he had done. If he met them again he would not be quite a stranger. And that he would meet them he was not only confident but determined. If they did not appear in Fort Churchill he would hunt out their camp. He found himself asking a dozen questions, none of which he could answer. Who was this girl who had come like a queen from out of the wilderness, and this man who bore with them the manner of a court here? Was it possible, after all, that they were of the forests? And where was Fort a god? He had never heard of it before, and as he thought of Jean's strange rich dress of the heliotrope-scented handkerchief, of the old-fashioned repair at Pierre's side, and of the exquisite grace with which the girl had left him, he wondered if such a place as this Fort a god must be could exist in the heart of the Dessal at Northland. Pierre had said that they had come from Fort a god, but were they a part of it? He fell asleep. The resolution formed in his mind to investigate as soon as he found the opportunity. There would surely be those at Churchill who would know these people. If not, they would know of Fort a god. Philip found Gregson awake and dressed when he rolled out of his bunk a few hours later. Gregson had breakfast ready. You're a good one to have company, growled the artist. When you go out mooning again, please take me along, will you? Chuck your head in that pail of water and let's eat. I'm starved. Philip noticed that his companion had tacked the sketch against one of the logs above the table. Pretty good for imagination, Greggy, he said, nodding. Burke will jump at that if you do it in colors. Burke won't get it, replied Gregson soberly, seating himself at the table. It won't be for sale. Why? Gregson waited until Philip had seated himself before he answered. Look here, old man, get ready to laugh. Split your sides, if you want to. But it's God's truth that the girl I saw yesterday is the only girl I've ever seen that I'd be willing to die for. To be sure, agreed Philip. I understand. Gregson stared at him in surprise. Why don't you laugh? he asked. It's not a laughing matter, said Philip. I say that I understand, and I do. Gregson looked from Philip's face to the picture. Does it hit you that way, Phil? She is very beautiful. She is more than that, declared Gregson warmly. If I ever looked into an angel's face it was yesterday, Phil. For just a moment I met her eyes and they were wonderful. I mean the color, said Philip, engaging himself with the food. They were blue or gray. It is the first time I ever looked into a woman's eyes without being sure of the color of them. It was her hair, Phil, not this tinsel sort of gold that makes you wonder if it's real, but the kind you dream about. You may think me a loon, but I'm going to find out who she is and where she is as soon as I have done with this breakfast. And Lord Fitzhugh, a shadow passed over Gregson's face. For a few moments he ate in silence. Then he said, That's what kept me awake after you had gone, thinking of Lord Fitzhugh and this girl. See here, Phil, she isn't one of the kind up here. There was breeding and blood in every inch of her, and what I am wondering is if these two could be associated in any way. I don't want it to be so, but it's possible. Beautiful young women like her don't come traveling up to this knob end of the earth alone, do they? Philip did not pursue the subject. A quarter of an hour later the two young men left the cabin, crossed the ridge, and walked together down into Churchill. Gregson went to the company's store while Philip entered the building occupied by Pierce. Pierce was at his desk. He looked up with tired, puffy eyes and his fat hands lay limply before him. Philip knew that he had not been to bed. His oily face strove to put on an appearance of animation and business as Philip entered. Philip produced a couple of cigars and took a chair opposite him. You look bushed, Pierce, he began. Business must be rushing. I saw a light in your window after midnight and I came within an ace of calling. Thought you wouldn't like to be interrupted, so I put off my business until this morning. Insomnia, said Pierce, huskily. I can't sleep. Suppose you saw me at work through the window? There was almost an eager haste in his question. Saw nothing but the light, replied Philip carelessly. You know this country pretty well, don't you, Pierce? Been squatting on prospects for eight years, waiting for this damned railroad, said Pierce, interlacing his thick fingers. I guess I know it. Then you can undoubtedly tell me the location of Forda God. Forda what? Forda God. Pierce looked blank. It's a new one on me, he said, finally. Never heard of it. He rose from his chair and went over to a big map hanging against the wall. Studiously he went over it with the point of his stubby forefinger. This is the latest from the government, he continued, with his back to Philip. But it ain't here. There's a God's lake down south of Nelson House. But that's the only thing with a God about it north of 53. It's not so far south as that, said Philip, rising. Pierce's little eyes were fixed on him shrewdly. Never heard of it, he repeated. What sort of a place is it? A post? I have no idea, replied Philip. I came for information more out of curiosity than anything else. Perhaps I misunderstood the name. I'm much obliged. He left Pierce in his chair and went directly to the Factor's quarters. Blood-so, chief factor of the Hudson's Bay Company in the far north, could give him no more information than had Pierce. He had never heard of Fort-a-God. He could not remember the name of Couché. During the next two hours Philip talked with French, Indian, and half-breed trappers, and questioned the mail-runner who had come in that morning from the south. No one could tell him of Fort-a-God. Had Pierce lied to him? His face flushed with anger as this thought came to him. In the next breath he assured himself that Pierce was not a man who would lie. He had measured him as a man who would fight and not one who would lie. Besides, he had voluntarily given the information that he and Jean were from Fort-a-God. There had been no excuse for falsehood. He purposely directed his movement so that he would not come into contact with Gregson, little dreaming that his artist friend was working under the same formula. He lunged with the factor, and a little later went boldly back to the cliff where he had met Jean and Pierre the preceding night. Although he had now come to expect no response to what he had written, he carefully examined the rocks about him. Then he set out through the forest in the direction from which had come the howling of the wolf-dog. He searched until late in the afternoon, but found no signs of a recent camp. For several miles he followed the main trail that led northward from Fort Churchill. He crossed three times through the country between this trail and the edge of the bay, searching for smoke from the top of every ridge that he climbed, listening for any sound that might give him a clue. He visited the shack of an old half-breed deep in the forest beyond the cliff, but its aged tenant could give him no information. He had not seen Pierre and Jean, nor had he heard the howling of their dog. Tired and disappointed Philip returned to Churchill. He went directly to his cabin and found Gregson waiting for him. There was a curious look in the artist's face as he gazed questioningly at his friend. His immaculate appearance was gone. He looked like one who had passed through an uncomfortable hour or two. Perspiration had dried in dirty streaks on his face, and his hands were buried dejectedly in his trousers' pockets. He rose to his feet and stood before his companion. Look at me, Phil. Take a good long look, he urged. Philip stared. Am I awake? demanded the artist. Do I look like a man in his right senses? Tell me! He turned and pointed to the sketch hanging against the wall. Did I see that girl or didn't I? He went on, not waiting for Philip to answer. Did I dream of seeing her? Huh? By thunder, Phil! He whirled upon his companion, a glow of excitement taking the place of the fatigue in his eyes. I couldn't find her today. I've hunted in every shack and brush heap in and around Churchill. I've hunted until I'm so tired I can hardly stand up. And the devil of it is I can find no one else who got more than a glimpse of her, and then they did not see her as I did. She had nothing on her head when I saw her, but I remember now that something like a heavy veil fell about her shoulders and that she was lifting it when she passed. Anyway, no one saw her like that, he pointed to the sketch. And she's gone, gone as completely as though she came in a flying machine and went away in one. She's gone, unless—what? Unless she is in concealment right here in Churchill. She's gone, or hiding. You have reason to suspect that she would be hiding, said Philip, concealing the effect of the other's words upon him? Gregson was uneasy. He lighted a cigarette, puffed at it once or twice, and tossed it through the open door. Suddenly he reached in his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. "'Doos, take it, if I know whether I have it or not,' he cried. "'But look here, Phil. I saw the mail come in today, and I walked up as bold as you please and asked if there was anything for Lord Fitzhugh. I showed the other letter and said I was Fitzhugh's agent. It went, and I got this!' Philip snatched at the letter which Gregson held out to him. His fingers trembled as he unfolded the single sheet of paper which he drew forth. Across it was written a single line. "'Don't lose an hour. Strike now!' There was nothing more, except a large ink blot under the words. The envelope was addressed in the same hand as the one he had previously received. The men stared into each other's face. "'It's singular, that's all,' pursued Gregson. Those words are important. The writer expects that they will reach Lord Fitzhugh immediately, and as soon as he gets them you can look for war. Isn't that their significance? I repeat that it is singular this girl should come here so mysteriously and disappear still more so, just at this psychological moment. And it is still more puzzling when you take into consideration the fact that two hours before the runner came in from the south another person inquired for Lord Fitzhugh's mail.' Philip started. "'And they told you this?' "'Yes. It was a man who asked, a stranger. He gave no name and left no word. Now, if it should happen to be the man who was with the girl when I saw her, and we can find him, we've as good as got this Lord Fitzhugh. If we don't find him, and mighty soon, it's up to us to start for your camps and put them into fighting shape. See the point?' "'But we've got the letter,' said Philip. "'Fitzhugh won't receive the final word, and that will delay whatever plot he has ready to spring.' "'My dear Phil,' said Gregson, softly, "'I always said that you were the fighter and I the diplomat, yours the brawn and mine the brain. Don't you see what this means?' "'I'll gamble my right hand that these very words have been sent to Lord Fitzhugh at two or three different points, so that they would be sure of reaching him. I'm just as positive that he has already received a copy of the letter which we have. "'Mark my words. It's catch Lord Fitzhugh within the next few days, or fight!' Philip sat down, breathing heavily. "'I'll send word to MacDougall,' he said. "'But I—I must wait for the ship. Why not leave word for Broca and join MacDougall?' "'Because when the ship comes in, I believe that a large part of this mystery will be cleared up,' replied Philip. "'It is necessary that I remain here. That will give us a few days in which to make a further search for these people.' Gregson did not urge the point, but replaced the second letter in his pocket with the first. During the evening he remained at the cabin. Philip returned to Churchill. For an hour he sat among the ruins of the old fort, striving to bring some sort of order out of the chaos of events that had occurred during the past few days. He was almost convinced that he ought to reveal all that he knew to Gregson, and yet several reasons kept him from doing so. If Miss Broca was on the London ship when it arrived at Churchill, there would be no necessity of disclosing that part of his own history which he was keeping secret within himself. If Eileen was not on the ship, her absence would be sufficient proof to him that she was in or near Churchill, and in this event he knew that it would be impossible for him to keep from associating with her movements not only those of Lord Fitzhugh, but also those of Jean and Pierre and of Broca himself. He could see but two things to do at present—wait and watch. If Miss Broca was not with her father, he would take Gregson fully into his confidence. The next morning he dispatched a messenger with a letter from McDougal at Blind Indian Lake, warning him to be on his guard and to prepare the long line of substations for possible attack. All this day Gregson remained in the cabin. It won't do for me to make myself too evident, he explained. I've called for Lord Fitzhugh's mail, and I'd better lie as low as possible until the corn begins to pop. Philip again searched the forests to the north and went with the hope of finding some trace of Pierre and Jean. The forest people were beginning to come into Churchill from all directions to be present at the big event of the year, the arrival of the London ship. And Philip made inquiries on every trail. No one had seen those whom he described. The fourth and fifth days passed without any developments. So far as he could discover there was no fort a god, no Jean and Pierre Couché. He was completely baffled. The sixth day he spent in the cabin with Gregson. On the morning of the seventh there came from far out over the bay the hollow booming of a cannon. It was the signal which for two hundred years the ships from over the sea had given to the people of Churchill. By the time the two young men had finished their breakfasts and climbed to the top of the ridge overlooking the bay the vessel had dropped anchor half a mile offshore where she rode safe from the rocks at low tide. Along the shore below them, where Churchill lay, the forest people were gathered in silent waiting groups. Philip pointed to the Factor's big York boat, already two-thirds of the way to the ship. "'We should have gone with blood, so,' he said. Broca will think this a shabby reception on our part, and Miss Broca won't be half-flattered. We'll go down and get a good position on the pier.' Fifteen minutes later they were thrusting themselves through the crowd of men, women, children, and dogs congregated at the foot of the long stone pier, alongside which the ship would lie for two or three hours at each high tide. Philip stopped among a number of crees and half-breeds and laid a detaining hand upon Gregson's arm. "'This is near enough, if you don't want to make yourself conspicuous,' he said. The York boat was returning. Philip pulled a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. He felt his heart throbbing excitedly as the boat drew nearer. He looked at Gregson. The artist was taking short, quick puffs on his cigarette, and Philip wondered at the evident eagerness with which he was watching the approaching craft. Until the boat ran close up under the pier its sail hid the occupants. While the canvas still fluttered in the light wind, blood so sprang from the bow out upon the rocks with a rope. Three or four of his men followed. With a rattle of blocks and rings the sheet dropped like a huge white curtain, and Philip took a step forward, scarce restraining the exclamation that forced itself to his lips at the picture which it revealed. Standing on the broad rail her slender form poised for the quick upward step, one hand extended to blood-so, was Eileen Brocaw. In another instant she was upon the pier, facing the strange people before her, while her father clambered out of the boat behind. There was a smile of expectancy in her lips as she scanned the dark, silent faces of the forest people. Philip knew that she was looking for him. His pulse quickened. He turned for a moment to see the effect of the girl's appearance upon Gregson. The artist's two hands had gripped his arm. They closed now until his fingers were like cords of steel. His face was white, his lips set into thin lines. For a breath he stood thus, while Miss Brocaw's scrutiny traveled nearer to them. Then suddenly he released his hold and darted back among the half-breeds and Indians, his face turning to Philip's in one quick warning appeal. He was not a moment too soon, for scarce had he gone when Miss Brocaw caught sight of Philip's tall form at the foot of the pier. Philip did not see the signal which she gave him. He was staring at the line of faces ahead of him. Two people had worked their way through that line, and suddenly every muscle in his body became tense with excitement and joy. They were Pierre and Jean. He caught his breath at what happened then. He saw Jean falter for a moment. He noticed that she was now dressed like the others about her, and that Pierre, who stood at her shoulder, was no longer the fine gentleman of the rock. The half-breed bent over her, as if whispering to her. And then Jean ran out from those about her to Eileen. Her beautiful face flushed with joy and welcome as she reached out her arms to the other woman. Philip saw a sudden startled look leap into Miss Brocaw's face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She stared at the forest girl, drew herself hotly erect, and with a word which he could not hear, turned to blood so under father. For an instant Jean stood as if someone had struck her a blow. Then slowly she turned. The flush was gone from her face. Her beautiful mouth was quivering, and Philip fancied that he could hear the low sobbing of her breath. With a cry in which he uttered no name but which was meant for her, he sprang forward into the clear space of the pier. He saw him and darted back among her people. He would have followed, but Miss Brocaw was coming to him now, her hand held out to him, and a step behind were Brocaw and the factor. Philip! she cried. He spoke no word as he crushed her hand. The hut grip of his fingers, the deep flush in his face, was interpreted by her as a welcome which it did not require speech to strengthen. He shook hands with Brocaw, and as the three followed after the factor, his eyes sought vainly for Pierre and Jean. They were gone, and he felt suddenly a thrill of repugnance at the gentle pressure of Eileen Brocaw's hand upon his arm. CHAPTER VIII. Philip did not see the hundred staring eyes that followed in wonderment the tall, beautiful girl who walked at his side. He knew that Miss Brocaw was talking and laughing, and that he was nodding his head and answering her, while his brain raged for an idea that would give him an excuse for leaving her to follow Jean and Pierre. The fact that Gregson had left him so strangely, that Eileen had come with her father, and that instead of clearing up the mystery in which they were so deeply involved, the arrival of the London ship had even more hopelessly entangled them, were forgotten for the moment and the desire to intercept Jean and Pierre before they could leave Churchill. Miss Brocaw herself unconsciously gave him the opportunity for which he was seeking. You don't look very happy, Philip, she exclaimed, in a chiding voice, meant only for his ears. I thought perhaps my coming would make you glad. Philip caught eagerly at the half-question in her voice. I feared you would notice it, he said quickly. I was afraid you would think me indifferent, because I did not go out to meet you in the boat, and because I had stood hidden at the end of the pier when you landed. But I was looking for a man. I have been hunting for him for a long time, and I saw his face just as we came through the crowd. That is why I am rattled, he laughed. Will you excuse me if I go back? Can you find some excuse for the others? I will return in a few minutes, and then you will not say that I am unhappy. Miss Brocaw drew her hand from his arm. Surely I will excuse you, she cried. Hurry, or you may lose him. I would like to go with you if it is going to be exciting. Philip turned to Brocaw and the Factor who were close behind them. I am compelled to leave you here, he explained. I have excused myself to Miss Brocaw and will join you almost immediately. He lost no time in hurrying back to the shore of the bay. As he had expected, Jean and her companion were no longer in sight. There was only one direction in which they could have disappeared so quickly, and this was toward the cliff. Once hidden by the fringe of forest, he hastened his steps until he was almost running. He had reached the base of the huge mass of rock that rose up from the sea, when down the narrow trail that led to the cliff there came a figure to meet him. It was an Indian boy, and he advanced to question him. If Jean and Pierre had passed that way, the boy must surely have seen them. Before he had spoken, the lad ran toward him, holding out something in his hand. The question on Philip's lips changed to an exclamation of joy when he recognized the handkerchief which he had dropped upon the rock a few nights before, or one so near like it that he could not have told them apart. It was tied into a knot, and he felt the crumpling of paper under the pressure of his fingers. He almost tore the bit of lace and linen in his eagerness to rescue the paper, which a moment later he held in his fingers. Three short lines, written in a fine, old-fashioned hand, were all that had held for him. But they were sufficient to set his heart beating wildly. Will Monsieur come to the top of the rock tonight, some time between the hours of nine and ten? There was no signature to the note, but Philip knew that only Jean could have written it, for the letters were almost of microscopic smallness, as delicate as the bit of lace in which they had been delivered, and of acquaintance of style which added still more to the bewildering mystery which already surrounded these people. He read the lines half a dozen times, and then turned to find that the Indian boy was slipping away through the rocks. Here, you! he commanded in English, come back! The boy's white teeth gleamed in a laugh as he waved his hand and leaped farther away. From Philip his eyes shifted in a quick searching glance to the top of the cliff. In a flash Philip followed its direction. He understood the meaning of the look. From the cliff Jean and Pierre had seen his approach, and their meeting with the Indian boy had made it possible for them to intercept him in this manner. They were probably looking down upon him now, and in the gladness of the moment Philip laughed up at the bare rocks and waved his cap above his head as a signal of his acceptance of the strange invitation he had received. Vaguely he wondered why they had set the meeting for that night, when in three or four minutes he could have joined them up there in broad day. But the central tangle of the mystery that had grown up about him during the past few days was too perplexing to embroider with such a minor detail as this, and he turned back toward Churchill with the feeling that everything was working in his favor. During the next few hours he would clear up the tangle, and in addition to that he would meet Jean and Pierre. It was the thought of Jean, and not the surprises which he was about to explain, that stirred his blood as he hurried back to the fort. It was his intention to return to Eileen and her father, but he changed this. He would first hunt up Gregson and begin his work there. He knew that the artist would be expecting him, and he went directly to the cabin, escaping notice by following along the fringe of the forest. Gregson was pacing back and forth across the cabin floor when Philip arrived. His steps were quick and excited. His hands were thrust deep in his trousers' pockets. The butts of innumerable half-smoked cigarettes lay scattered under his feet. He ceased his restless movement upon his companion's interruption, and for a moment or two gazed at Philip in blank silence. "'Well,' he said at last, have you got anything to say?' "'Nothing,' said Philip. "'It's beyond me, Greggy. For heaven's sake, give me an explanation.' There was nothing womanish in the hard lines of Gregson's face now.' He spoke with the suggestion of a sneer. "'You knew all the time,' he said coldly. "'You knew that Miss Broca and the girl whom I drew were one and the same person? What was the object of your little sensation?' Philip ignored his question. He stepped quickly up to Gregson and seized him by the arm. "'It is impossible,' he cried in a low voice. "'They cannot be the same person. That ship out there has not touched land since she left Halifax. Until she hovens side off Churchill she hasn't been within two hundred miles of a coast to this side of Hudson Strait. Miss Broca is as new to this country as you. It is beyond all reason to suppose anything else.' "'Nevertheless,' said Gregson quietly, "'it was Miss Broca whom I saw the other day, and that is Miss Broca's picture.' He pointed to the sketch and freed his arm to light another cigarette. There was a peculiar tone of finality in his voice which warned Philip that no amount of logic or arguing on his part would change his friend's belief. Gregson looked at him over his lighted match. "'It was Miss Broca,' he said again. Perhaps it is within reason to suppose that she came to Churchill in a balloon, dropped into town for luncheon, and departed in a balloon, descending by some miraculous chance aboard the ship that was bringing her father. However it may have happened she was in Churchill a few days ago. On that hypothesis I am going to work, and as a consequence I am going to ask you for the indefinite loan of the Lord Fitzhugh letter. Will you give me your word to say nothing of that letter for a few days?' "'It is almost necessary to show it to Broca,' hesitated Philip. "'Almost, but not quite,' Gregson caught him up. Broca knows the seriousness of the situation without that letter. See here, Phil, you go out and fight and let me handle this end of the business. Don't reveal me to the Broca's. I don't want to meet her, yet. Though God knows if it wasn't for my confounded friendship for you, I'd go over there with you this minute. She was even more beautiful than when I saw her before.' "'Then there is a difference,' laughed Philip, meaningly. Not a difference, but a little better view,' corrected the artist. "'Now, if we could only find the other girl, what a mess you'd be in, Greggy. By George, but this is beginning to have its humorous, as well as its tragic side. I'd give a thousand dollars to have this other golden-haired beauty appear upon the scene. "'I'll give you a thousand if you produce her,' retorted Gregson. "'Good!' laughed Philip, holding out a hand. "'I'll report again this afternoon or to-night.' Inwardly he felt himself in no humorous mood as he retraced his steps to Churchill. He had thought to begin his work of clearing up the puzzling situation with Gregson, and Gregson had failed him completely by his persistence in the belief that Miss Broca was the girl whose face he had seen more than a week before. Is it possible, after all, that the ship had touched at some point up the coast?' The supposition was preposterous. Yet before rejoining the Broca's he sought out the captain and found that the company's vessel had come directly from Halifax without a change or stop in her regular course. The word of the company's captain cleared up his doubts in one direction. It mystified him more than ever in another. He was convinced that Gregson had not seen Miss Broca until that morning. But who was Eileen's double? Where was she at this moment? What peculiar combination of circumstance had drawn them both to Churchill at this particularly significant time? It was impossible for him not to associate the girl whom Gregson had encountered, and who so closely resembled Eileen, with Lord Fitzhugh and the plot against his company. And it struck him with a certain feeling of dread that if his suspicions were true, Jean and Pierre must also be mixed up in the affair. For had not Jean, in her error, greeted Eileen as though she were a dear friend? He went directly to the Factor's house and knocked at the door opening into the rooms occupied by Broca and his daughter. Broca admitted him, and at Philip's searching glance about the room he nodded toward a closed inner door and said, "'Eileen is resting. It's been a hard trip on her, Phil, and she hasn't slept for two consecutive nights since we left Halifax.' Philip's keen glance told him that Broca himself had not slept much. The promoter's eyes were heavy, with little puffy bags under them. But otherwise he betrayed no signs of unrest or lack of rest. He motioned Philip to a chair close to a huge fireplace in which a pile of birch was leaping into flame, offered him a cigar, and plunged immediately into business. "'It's hell, Philip,' he said, in a hard, quiet voice, as though he were restraining an outburst of passion with effort. In another three months we'd have been on a working basis, doing dividends. I've even gone to the point of making contracts that show us five hundred percent profit, and now this.' He dashed his half-burned cigar into the fire and viciously bit the end from another. Philip was lighting his own, and there was a moment silent, broken sharply by the financier. "'Are your men prepared to fight?' "'If it's necessary,' replied Philip, we can at least depend upon a part of them, especially the men at Blind Indian Lake. But this fighting, why do you think it'll come to that? If there is fighting, we are ruined. If the people rise against us in a body, yes, we are ruined. That is what we must not permit. It is our one chance. I have done everything in my power to beat this movement against us down south and have failed. Our enemies are completely masked. They have won popular sentiment through the newspapers. Their next move is to strike directly at us. Whatever is to happen will happen soon. The plan is to attack us, to destroy our property, and the movement is to be advertised as a retaliation for heinous outrages perpetrated by our men. It is possible that the attack will not be by Northerners alone, but by men brought in for the purpose. The result will be the same if it succeeds. The attack is planned to be a surprise. Our one chance is to meet it, to completely frustrate it, to strike an overwhelming blow, and to capture enough of our assailants to give us the evidence we must have. Broca was excited. He emphasized his words with angry sweeps of his arms. He clenched his fists and his face grew red. He was not like the old, shrewd, indomitable Broca, completely master of himself, never revealing himself beyond the unruffled veil of his self-possession, and Philip was surprised. He had expected that Broca's wily brain would bring with it half a dozen schemes for the quiet undoing of their enemies, and now here was Broca, the man who always hedged himself in with legal breastworks, who never revealed himself to the shot of his enemies, enlisting himself for a fight in the open. Philip had told Gregson that there would be a fight. He was firmly convinced that there would be a fight, but he had never believed that Broca would come to join in it. He leaned toward the financier, his face flushed a little by the warmth of the fire, and by the knowledge that Broca was relinquishing the situation entirely into his hands. If it came to fighting, he would win. He was confident of himself there. But what will be the result if we win? he asked. If we secure those who will give the evidence we need, evidence that the movement against us is a plot to destroy our company, the government will stand by us, replied Broca. I have sounded the situation there. I have filed a formal declaration to the effect that such a movement is on foot, and have received a promise that the commissioner of police will investigate the matter. But before that happens our enemies will strike. There is no time for red tape or investigations. We must achieve our own salvation, and to achieve that we must fight. And if we lose, Broca lifted his hands and shoulders with a significant gesture. The moral effect will be tremendous, he said. It will be shown that the entire North is inimical to our company, and the government will withdraw our option. We will be ruined. Our stockholders will lose every cent invested. In moments of mental energy Philip was restless. He rose from his chair now, and moved softly back and forth across the carpeted floor of the big room, shrouded in tobacco smoke. Did he break his word to Gregson and tell Broca of Lord Fitzhugh? But on second thought, what good would come of it? Broca was already aware of the seriousness of the situation. In some one of his unaccountable ways he had learned that their enemies were to strike almost immediately, and his own revelation of the Fitzhugh letters would but strengthen this evidence. He would keep his faith with Gregson for the promised day or two. For an hour the two men were alone in the room. At the end of that time their plans were settled. The next morning Philip would leave for blind Indian Lake and prepare for war. Broca would follow two or three days later. A heavy weight seemed lifted from Philip's shoulders when he left Broca. After months of worry and weeks of physical inaction he saw his way clear for the first time. And for the first time, too, something seemed to have come into his life that filled him with a strange exhilaration and made him forgetful of the gloom that had settled over him during these last months. That night he would see Jean. His body thrilled at the thought, until for a time he forgot that he would also see and talk with Eileen. A few days before he had told Gregson that it would be suicidal to fight the Northerners. Now he was eager for action, eager to begin and end the affair, to win or lose. If he had stopped to analyze the change in himself he would have found that the beautiful girl whom he had first seen on the moonlit rock was at the bottom of it. And yet Jean was a Northerner, one of those against whom his actions must be directed. But he had confidence in himself, confidence in what that night would bring forth. He was like one freed from a bondage that had oppressed him for a long time and the fact that he might be compelled to fight Jean's own people did not destroy his hopefulness, his new joy and excitement that he had found in life. As he hurried back to his cabin he told himself that both Jean and Pierre had read what he had sent to them in the handkerchief. Their response was a proof that they understood him, and deep down a voice kept telling him that if he came to fighting they three, Pierre, Jean, and himself, would rise or fall, together. A few hours had transformed him into Gregson's old appreciation of the fighting man. Long and tedious months of diplomacy, of political intrigue, of bribery and dishonest financiering in which he had played but the part of a helpless machine were gone. Now he held the whip hand. Broca had acknowledged his own surrender. He was to fight, a clean fair fight on his part, and his blood leaped in every vein like marshalling armies. That night on the rock he would reveal himself frankly to Pierre and Jean. He would tell them of the plot to disrupt the company and of the work ahead of him. And after that he thrust open the door of his cabin, eager to enlist Gregson in his enthusiasm. The artist was not in. Philip noticed that the cartridge belt on the revolver which usually hung over Gregson's bunk were gone. He never entered the cabin without looking at the sketch of Eileen Broca. Something about it seemed to fascinate him to challenge his presence. Now it was missing from the wall. He threw off his coat and hat, filled his pipe, and began gathering up his few possessions, ready for packing. It was noon before he was through, and Gregson had not returned. He boiled himself some coffee and sat down to wait. At five o'clock he was to eat supper with the Broca's and the factor. Eileen, through her father, had asked him to join her an hour or two earlier in the big room. He waited until four, and then left a brief note for Gregson upon the table. It was growing dusk in the forest. From the top of the ridge Philip caught the last red glow of the sun sinking far to the south and west. A faint radiance of it still swept over his head and mingled with the thickening gray gloom of the northern sea. Across the dip in the bay the huge white-capped cliff seemed to loom nearer and more gigantic in the whimsical light. For a few moments a red bar shot across it, and as the golden fire faded and died away Philip could not but think it was like a torch beckoning to him. A few hours more, and where that light had been he would see Jean, and now down there Eileen was waiting for him. His pulse quickened as he passed beyond the ancient fort over the burial-place of the dead and into Churchill. He met no one at the factors, and the door leading into Miss Broca's room was partly a jar. A great fire was burning in the fireplace, and he saw Eileen seated in the rich glow of it, smiling at him as he entered. He closed the door, and when he turned she had risen and was holding out her hands to him. She had dressed for him almost as on that night of the Broca ball. In the flashing play of the fire her exquisite arms and shoulders shone with dazzling beauty. Her eyes laughed at him. Her hair rippled in a golden flood. Faintly there came to him, filling the room slowly, tingling his nerves, the sweet scent of heliotrope, the perfume that had filled his nostrils on that other night a long time ago, the sweet scent that had come to him in the handkerchief dropped on the rock, the breath of the bit of lace that had bound Jean's hair. Eileen moved toward him. Philip, she said, now are you glad to see me? CHAPTER IX Her voice broke the spell that had held him for a moment. I am glad to see you, he cried quickly, seizing both her hands. Suddenly I haven't quite yet awakened from my dream. It seems too wonderful, almost unreal. Are you the old Eileen who used to shudder when I told you of a bit of jungle and wild beasts, and who laughed at me because I loved to sleep out of doors and tramp mountains, instead of decently behaving myself at home? I demand an explanation. It must be a wonderful change. There has been a change, she interrupted him. Sit down, Philip, there. She nestled herself on a stool close to his feet and looked up at him. Her hands clasped under her chin, radiantly lovely. You told me once that girls like me simply fluttered over the top of life like butterflies, that we couldn't understand life or live it, until somewhere at some time we came into touch with nature. Do you remember? I was consumed with rage, then, at your frankness, at what I considered your impertinent. I couldn't get what you said out of my mind, and I'm trying it. And you like it? He put the question almost eagerly. Yes. She was looking at him steadily, her beautiful gray eyes meeting his own in a silence that stirred him deeply. He had never seen her more beautiful. Was it the firelight on her face? The crimson leaping of the flames that gave her skin a richer hue? Was it the mingling of fire and shadow that darkened her cheeks? An impulse made him utter the words which passed through his mind. You have already tried it, he said. I can see the effects of it on your face. It would take weeks in the forest to do that. The gray eyes faltered, the flush deepened. Yes, I have tried it. I spent a half of the summer at our cottage in the lake. But it is not tan, he persisted, thrilled for a moment by the discoveries he was making. It is the wind, it is the open, it is the smoke of campfires. It is the elixir of balsam and cedar and pine. That is what I see in your face, unless it is the fire. It is the fire, partly, she said. And the rest is the wind and the open of the seas we have come across and the sting of icebergs. Ugh! My face feels like nettles!" She rubbed her cheeks with her two hands and then held up one hand to Philip. Look, she said, it's as rough as sandpaper. Isn't that a change? I didn't even wear gloves on the ship. I'm an enthusiast. I'm going down there with you and I'm going to fight. Now have you got anything to say against me, Mr. Philip? There was a lightness in her words and yet not in her voice. And her manner was an uneasiness, mingled with an almost childish eagerness for him to answer, which Philip could not understand. He fancied that once or twice he had caught the faintest sign of a break in her voice. You really mean to hazard this adventure? He cried softly in his astonishment. You, whom wild horses couldn't drag into the wilderness, as you once told me? Yes, she affirmed, drawing her stool back out of the increasing heat of the fire. Her face was almost entirely in shadow now and she did not look at Philip. I am beginning to love adventure, she went on in an even voice. It was an adventure coming up and when we landed down there something curious happened. Did you see a girl who thought that she knew me? She stopped and a sudden flash of the fire lit up her eyes, fixed on him intently from between her shielding hands. I saw her run out and speak to you, said Philip, his heart beating at double-quick. He leaned over so that he was looking squarely into Miss Broca's face. Did you know her? she asked. I have seen her only twice, once before she spoke to you. If I meet her again I shall apologize, said Eileen. It was her mistake and she startled me. When she ran out to me like that and held out her hands, I thought of beggars. Beggars! almost shouted Philip. A beggar! he caught himself with a laugh and to cover his sudden emotion turned to lay a fresh piece of birch on the fire. We don't have beggars up here. The door opened behind them and Broca entered. Philip's face was red when he greeted him. For half an hour after that he cursed himself for not being as clever as Gregson. He knew that there was a change in Eileen Broca, a change which nature had not worked alone, as she wished him to believe. Then and at supper he tried to fathom her. At times he detected the metallic ring of what was unreal and make believe in what she said. At other times she seemed stirred by emotions which added immeasurably to the sweetness and truthfulness of her voice. She was nervous. He found her eyes frequently seeking her father's face and more than once they were filled with a mysterious questioning as if within Broca's brain there lurked hidden things which were new to her and which she was struggling to understand. She no longer held the old fascination for Philip and yet he conceded that she was more beautiful than ever. Until to-night he had never seen the shadow of sadness in her eyes. He had never seen them darken as they darken now when she listened with almost feverish interest to the words which passed between himself and Broca. He was certain that it was not a whim that had brought her into the North. It was impossible for him to believe that he had peaked at her vanity until she had leaped into action as she had suggested to him while they were sitting before the fire. Could it be that she had accompanied her father because he, Philip Whitmore, was in the North? The thought drew a slow flush into his face and his uneasiness increased when he knew that she was looking at him. He was glad when it came time for cigars and Eileen excused herself. He opened the door for her and told her that he probably would not see her again until morning as he had an important engagement for the evening. She gave him her hand and for a moment he felt the clinging of her fingers about his own. "'Good night!' she whispered. "'Good night!' she drew her hand half away and then suddenly raised her eyes straight to his own. They were calm, quiet, beautiful, and yet there came a quick little catch in her throat as she leaned so close to him that she touched his breast and said, "'It will be best, best for everything, everybody, if you can influence father to stay at Fort Churchill!' She did not wait for him to reply, but hurried toward her room. For a moment Philip stared after her in amazement. Then he took a step, as if to follow her, to call her back. The impulse left him as quickly as it came and he rejoined Broca and the Factor. He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. At half-past seven he shook hands with the two men, lighted a fresh cigar and passed out into the night. It was early for his meeting with Pierre and Jean, but he went down to the shore and walked slowly in the direction of the cliff. He was still an hour early when he arrived at the great rock and sat down with his face turned to the sea. It was a white radiant night such as he had seen in the tropics. Only here in the north his vision reached to greater distances. Churchill lay lifeless in its pool of light. The ship hung like a black silhouette in the distance, with a cloud of jet-black smoke rising straight up from its funnels and spreading out high up against the sky, a huge ebb and monster that cast its shadows for a half a mile over the bay. The shadow held Philip's eyes. Now it was like a gigantic face, now like a monster beast. Now it reached out in the form of a great threatening hand, as though somewhere in the mystery of the north it saw a spirit victim as potent as itself. Then the spell of it was broken. From the end of the shadow, which reached almost to the base of the cliff in which Philip sat, there came a sound. It was a clear, metallic sound that left the vibration of steel in the air, and Philip leaned over the edge of the rock. Below him the shadow was broken into a pool of rippling starlight. He heard the faint dip of paddles, and suddenly a canoe shot from the shadow out into the clear light of the moon and stars. It was a large canoe. In it he could make out four figures. Three of them were paddling. The fourth sat motionless in the bow. They passed under him swiftly, guiding their canoe so that it was soon hidden in the shelter of the cliff. By the faint reflections cast by the disturbed water, Philip saw that the occupants of the canoe had made an effort to conceal themselves by following the course of the dense shadow. Only the chant sound had led him to observe them. Under ordinary circumstances the passing of a strange canoe at night would have had no significance for him. But at the present time it troubled him. The manner of its approach through the shadow, the strange quiet of its occupants, the stealth with which they had shot the canoe under the cliff, were all unusual. Could the incident have anything to do with Jean and Pierre? He waited until he heard the tiny bell in his watch tinkle the half hour, and then he set out slowly over the moonlit rocks to the north. Jean and Pierre would surely come from that direction. It was impossible to miss them. He walked without sound in his moccasins, keeping close to the edge of the cliff so that he could look out over the bay. Two or three hundred yards beyond the big rock the seawall swung in sharply, disclosing the open water like a still silvery sheet, for a mile or more. Philip scanned it for the canoe, but as far as he could see there was not a shadow. For a quarter of a mile he walked over the rocks, then returned. It was nine o'clock. The moment had arrived for the appearance of Jean and Pierre. He resumed his patrol of the cliff, and with each moment his nervousness increased. What if Jean failed him? What if she did not come to the rock? The mere thought made his heart sink with a sudden painful throb. Until now the fear that Jean might disappoint him, that she might not keep the trist, had not entered his head. His faith in this girl, whom he had seen but twice, was supreme. A second and a third time he patrolled the quarter-mile of cliff. Again his watch tinkled the half-hour, and he knew that the last minutes of the appointed time had come. The third and last time he went beyond the quarter-mile limit, searching in the white distances beyond. A low wind was rising from the bay. It rustled in the spruce and balsam tops of the forest that reached up to the barren whiteness of the rock plateau on which he stood. Under him he heard, growing more and more distinct, the moaning wash of the swelling tide. A moment of despair possessed him, and he felt that he had lost. Suddenly the wind brought to him a different sound, a shout far down the cliff, a second cry, and then the scream of a woman, deadened by the wash of the sea and the increasing sweep of the wind among the trees. He stood for a moment powerless, listening. The wind lulled, and the woman's cry now came to him again, a voice that was filled with terror rising in a wild appeal for help. With an answering shout he ran like a swift-footed animal along the cliff. It was Jean who was calling. Who else but Jean would be out there in the grey night? Jean and Pierre. He listened as he ran, but there came no other sound. At last he stopped, and drew in a great breath to send out a shout that would reach their ears. Above the fierce beating of his heart, the throbbing intake of his breath, he heard sounds which were not of the wind or the sea. He ran on, and suddenly the cliff dropped from under his feet, and he found himself on the edge of a great rift in the wall of rock, looking across upon a strange scene. In the brilliant moonlight, with his back against a rock, stood Pierre, his glistening rapier in his hand, his thin, lithe body bent for the attack of three men who faced him. It was but a moment's tableau. The men rushed in, muffled cries, blows, a single clash of steel, and Pierre's voice rose above the sound of conflict. For the love of God, give me help, monsieur! He had seen Philip rush up to the edge of the break in the cliff, and as he fought, he cried out again, Shoot, monsieur! In a moment it'll be too late! Philip had drawn his heavy revolver. He watched for an opportunity. The men were fighting now so that Pierre had been forced between his assailants and the breach in the wall. There was no chance to fire without hitting him. Run, Pierre! shouted Philip. Run! He fired once over the heads of the fighters. And as Pierre suddenly darted to one side in obedience to his command, there came for the first time a shot from the other side. The bullet whistled close to his ears. A second shot, and Pierre fell down like one dead among the rocks. Again Philip fired, a third and a fourth time, and one of the three who were disappearing in the white gloom stumbled over a rock and fell as Pierre had fallen. His companion stopped, picked him up, and staggered on with him. Philip's last shot missed, and before he could reload they were lost among the upheaved masses of the cliff. Pierre, he called, oh, Pierre Couchet! There was no answer from the other side. He ran along the edge of the break, and in the direction of the forest he found a place where he could descend. In his haste he fell. His hands were scratched. Blood flowed from a cut in his forehead when he dragged himself up to the face of the cliff again. He tried to shout when he saw a figure drag itself up among the rocks, but as almost superhuman exertions had left him voiceless. His wind whistled from between his parted lips when he came to Pierre. Pierre was supporting himself against a rock. His face was streaming with blood. In his hand he held what remained of the rapier which had broken off close to the hilt. His eyes were blazing like a madman's, and his face was twisted with an agony that sent a thrill of horror through Philip. My herd is nothing, nothing, monsieur! He gasped, understanding the look in Philip's face. It is Jean! They have gone! Gone with Jean! The rapier slipped from his hand, and he slid weakly down against the rock. Philip dropped upon his knees, and with his handkerchief began wiping the blood from the half-breed's face. For a few moments Pierre's head hung limp against his shoulder. What is it, Pierre? He urged. Tell me, quick! They have gone with Jean? Pierre's body grew rigid. With one great effort he seemed to marshal all of his strength and straightened himself. Listen, monsieur! he said, speaking calmly. They sat upon us as we were going to meet you at the rock. There were four. One of them is dead, back there. The others, with Jean, have gone in the canoe. It is death, worse than death, for her. His body writhed. In a passion he strove to rise to his feet. Then with a groan he sank back, and for a moment Philip thought he was dying. I will go, Pierre! he cried. I will bring her back. I swear it! Pierre's hand detained him as he went to rise. You swear? Yes. At the next break there is a canoe. They have gone for the Churchill. Pierre's voice was growing weaker. In a spasm of sudden fear at the dizziness which was turning the night black for him, he clutched at Philip's arm. If you save her, monsieur, do not bring her back, he whispered hoarsely. Take her to Fort Agade. Lose not an hour, not a minute. Trust no one. Hide yourselves. Fight, kill, but take her to Fort Agade. You will do this, monsieur? You promise? He fell back, limp. Philip lowered him gently, holding his head so that he could look into the staring eyes that were still open and understanding. I will go, Pierre, he said. I will take her to Fort Agade, and you— A shadow was creeping over Pierre's eyes. He was still fighting to understand, fighting to hold for another breath or two the consciousness that was fast slipping from him. Listen, cried Philip, striving to rouse him. You will not die. The bullet grazed your head, and the wound has already stopped bleeding. Tomorrow you must go to Churchill and hunt up a man named Gregson, the man I was with when you and Jean came to see the ship. Tell him that an important thing has happened, and that he must tell the others I have gone to the camps. He will understand. Tell him. Tell him. He struggled to find some final word for Gregson. Pierre still looked at him, his eyes half closed now. Philip bent close down. Tell him, he said, that I am on the trail of Lord Fitzhugh. Scarcely had he uttered the name when Pierre's closing eyes shot open. A groaning cry burst from his lips, and as if that name had aroused the last spark of life and strength within him into action, he wrenched himself from Philip's arms, striving to speak. A trickle of fresh blood ran over his face. Incoherent sounds rattled in his throat, and then, overcome by his effort, he dropped back unconscious. Philip wound his handkerchief about the wounded man's head and straightened out his limbs. Then he rose to his feet and reloaded his revolver. His hands were steady now, his brain was clear. The innervating thrill of excitement had gone from his body. Only his heart beat like a racing engine. He turned and ran in the direction which Pierre's assailants had taken, his head lowered, his revolver held in front of him on a level with his breast. He had not gone a hundred yards when something stopped him. In his path, with its face turned straight up to the moonlit sky, lay the body of a man. For an instant Philip bent over it. The broken blade of Pierre's rapier glistened under the man's throat. One lifeless hand clutched at it, as though in the last moment of life he had tried to draw it forth. The face was distorted, the eyes were still open, the lips parted. Death had come with terrible suddenness. Philip bent lower and stared into the face of the dead man. Where had he seen that face before? Suddenly he remembered. He drew back and a cold sweat seemed to break out all at once over his face and body. This man who lay with the broken blade of Pierre Couché's rapier in his breast had come ashore from the London ship that day in company with Eileen and her father. For a space he was overwhelmed by the discovery. Everything that had happened, the scene upon the rock when he first met Jean, the arrival of the ship, the moment's tableau on the pier, when Jean and Eileen stood face to face, rushed upon him now, as he gazed down into the staring eyes at his feet. What did it all mean? Why had Lord Fitzhugh's name been sufficient to drag the half-breed back from the brink of unconsciousness? What significance was there in this strange combination of circumstances that persisted in drawing Pierre and Jean into the plot that threatened himself? Had there been truth, after all, in those last words that he impressed upon the fainting senses of Pierre Couché's message to Gregson? He waited to answer none of the questions that leap through his brain. Tomorrow someone would find Pierre, or Pierre would crawl down into Churchill, and then there would be the dead man to account for. He shuddered as he returned his revolver into his holster and braced his limbs. It was an unpleasant task, but he knew that it must be done to save Pierre. He lifted the body clear of the rocks, and bending under its weight carried it to the edge of the cliff. Far below sounded the wash of the sea. He shoved his burden over the edge and listened. After a moment there came a dull splash. Then he hastened on, as Pierre had guided him. End of chapter 9, recording by Roger Maline. CHAPTER X Soon Philip slackened his pace and looked anxiously ahead of him. From where he stood the cliff sloped down to a white strip of beach that reached out into the night as far as he could see, trying to close in by the black gloom of the forest. Halfway down the slope the moonlight was cut by a dark streak, and he found this to be the second break. He had no difficulty in descending. Its sides were smooth as though worn by water. At the bottom white dry sand slipped under his feet. He made his way between the walls, and darkness shut him in. The trail grew rougher. Near the shore he stumbled blindly among huge rocks and piles of crumbling slate, wondering why Jean and Pierre had come this way when they might have taken a smoother road. Close to the stony beach, where the light was a little better, he made out the canoe which Pierre had drawn into the shadows. Not until he had dragged it into the moonlight at the edge of the water did he see that it was equipped as if for a long journey. Close to the stern was a bulging pack with a rifle strapped across it. Two or three smaller caribou skin bags lay in the center of the canoe. In the bow was a thick nest of bear skin, and he knew that this was for Jean. Cautiously Philip launched himself, and with silent sweeps of the paddle that made scarcely the sound of a ripple in the water, set out in the direction of Churchill. Jean's captors had a considerable start of him, but he felt confident of his ability to overtake them shortly, if Pierre had spoken with truth when he said that they would head for the Churchill River. He had observed the caution with which Pierre's assailants had approached the cliff, and he was sure that they would double that caution in their return, especially as their attack had been interrupted at the last moment. For this reason he paddled without great haste, keeping well within the concealment of the precipitous shore, with his ears and eyes keenly alive to discover a sign of those who were ahead of him. Opposite the rock where Pierre and Jean were to have met him, he stopped and stood up in the canoe. The wind had dispelled the smoke shadow. Between him and the distant ship lay an unclouded sea. Two-thirds of the distance to the vessel he made out the larger canoe, rising and falling with the smooth undulations of the tide. He sank upon his knees again and unstrapped Pierre's rifle. There was a cartridge in the chamber. He made sure that the magazine was loaded and resumed his paddling. His mind worked rapidly. Within half an hour, if he desired, he could overtake the other canoe. And what then? There were three to one, if it came to a fight, and how could he rescue Jean without a fight? His blood was pounding eagerly, almost with pleasure at the promise of what was ahead of him, and he laughed softly to himself as he thought of the odds. The ship loomed nearer. The canoe vanished behind it. A brief stop, a dozen words of explanation, and Philip knew that he could secure assistance from the vessel. After all, would that not be the wisest course for him to pursue? For a moment he hesitated, and paddled more slowly. If others joined with him in the rescue of Jean, what excuse could he offer for not bringing her back to Churchill? What would happen if he returned with her? Why had Pierre roused himself from something that was almost death to entreat him to take Jean to Fort Agade? At the thought of Fort Agade, a new strength leaped into his arms and body, urging him on to cope with the situation single-handed. If he rescued Jean alone, and went on with her as he had promised Pierre, many things that were puzzling him would be explained. It occurred to him again that Jean and Pierre might be the key to the mysterious plot that promised to crash out the life of the enterprise he had founded in the North. He found reasons for this belief. Why had Lord Fitzhugh's name had such a startling effect upon Pierre? Why was one of his assailants a man fresh from the London ship that had borne Eileen Broca and her father as passengers? He felt that Jean could explain these things, as well as her brother. She could explain the strange scene on the pier, when, for a moment, she had stood crushed and startled before Eileen. She could clear up the mystery of Gregson's sketch, for if there were two Eileen Brocas, Jean would know. With these arguments he convinced himself that he should go on alone. Yet behind them there was another and more powerful motive. He confessed to himself that he would willingly accept double the chances against him to achieve Jean's rescue without assistance and to accompany her to Fort Agade. The thought of their being together, of the girl's companionship, perhaps for days, thrilled him with exquisite anticipation. An hour or so ago he had been satisfied in the assurance that he would see her for a few minutes on the cliff. Since then fate had played his way. Gregson was his own to save, to defend, to carry on to Fort Agade. Not for a moment did he hesitate at the danger ahead of him, and yet his pursuit was filled with caution. Gregson, the diplomat, would have seen the necessity of halting at the ship for help. Philip was confident in himself. He knew that he would have at least three against him, for he was satisfied that the man whom he had wounded on the cliff was still in fighting trim. There might be others whom he had not taken into account. He passed so close under the stern of the ship that his canoe scraped against her side. For a few minutes the vessel had obstructed his view, but now he saw again, a quarter of a mile distant, the craft which he was pursuing. Jean's captors were heading straight for the river, and as the canoe was now partly broadside to him he could easily make out the figures in her, but not distinctly enough to make sure of their number. He shoved out boldly into the moonlight, and instead of following in his former course, he turned at a sharp angle in the direction of the shore. If the others saw him, which was probable, they would think that he was making a landing from the ship. Once he was in the deep fringe of shadow along the shore, he could redouble his exertions and draw nearer to them without being observed. No sooner had he readied the sheltering bloom than he bent to his paddle and the light birch bark fairly hissed through the water. Not until he found himself abreast of the pursuit did it occur to him that he could beat them out to the mouth of the Churchill and lie and wait for them. Every stroke of his paddle widened the distance between him and the larger canoe. Fifteen minutes later he reached the edge of the huge delta of wild rice and reeds through which the sluggish volume of the river emptied into the bay. The chances were that the approaching canoe would take the nearest channel into the main stream, and Philip concealed himself so that it would have to pass within twenty yards of him. From his ambuscade he looked out upon the approaching canoe. He was puzzled by the slowness of its progress. At times it seemed to stand still, and he could distinguish no movement at all among its occupants. At first he thought they were undecided as to which course to pursue, but a few minutes more suffice to show that this was not the reason for their desultory advance. The canoe was headed for the first channel. The solution came when a low but clear whistle signaled over the water. Almost instantly there came a responsive whistle from up the channel. Philip drew a quick breath, and a new sensation brought his teeth together in sudden perplexity. It looked as though he had a bigger fight before him than he had anticipated. At the signal from upstream he heard the quick dip of paddles and the canoe cut swiftly toward him. He drew back the hammer of Pierre's rule and cleared a little space through the reeds and grass so that his view into the channel was unobstructed. Three or four well-directed shots, a quick dash out into the stream, and he would possess gene. This was his first thought. It was followed by others, rapid as lightning, that restrained his eagerness. The night glow was treacherous to shoot by. What if he should miss, or hit gene, or in the sudden commotion and destruction of his shots the canoe should be overturned? A single error, the slightest mishap to himself, would mean the annihilation of his hopes. Even if he succeeded in directing his shots with accuracy, both himself and gene would almost immediately be under fire from those above. He dropped back again behind the screen of reeds. The canoe drew nearer. A moment more and it was almost a breast of him and his heart pounded like a swiftly beating hammer when he saw gene in the stern. She was leaning back as though unconscious. He could see nothing of her face, but as the canoe passed within ten yards of his hiding-place he saw the dark glow of her dishelled hair, which fell thickly over the object against which she was resting. It was but a moment's view and they were gone. He had not looked at the three men in the canoe. His whole being was centered upon gene. He had seen no sign of life, no movement in her body, not the flutter of a hand, and all his fears leaped like brands of burning fire into his brain. He thought of the inhuman plot which Lord Fitzhugh's letter had revealed. In the same breath Pierre Couchet's words rang in his ears. It is death worse than death for her. Was gene the first victim of that diabolical scheme to awaken the wrath of the Northland? In the madness which possessed him now, Philip shoved out his canoe while there was still danger of discovery. Fortunately none of the pursuit glanced back and a turn in the channel soon hid them from view. Philip had recovered his self-possession by the time he reached the turn. He assured himself that gene was unharmed as yet, and that when he saw her she had probably fainted from excitement and terror. Her fate still lay before her, somewhere in the deep and undisturbed forest up the Churchill. His one hope was to remain undiscovered and to rescue her at the last moment when she was taken ashore by her captors. He followed, close up against the reeds, never trusting himself out of the shadows. After a little he heard voices, and a second canoe appeared. There was a short pause, and the two canoes continued side by side up the channel. A quarter of an hour brought both the pursuers and the pursuit into the mainstream, which lay in black gloom between forest-walls that cut out all light but the shimmer of the stars. No longer could Philip see those ahead of him, but he guided himself by occasional voices and the dip of paddles. At times when the stream narrowed and the forest-walls gave him deeper shelter he drew perilously near with the hope of overhearing what was said, but he caught only an occasional word or two. He listened in vain for Jean's voice. Once he heard her name spoken, and it was followed by a low laugh from someone in the canoe that had waited at the mouth of the Churchill. A dozen times during the first half-hour after they entered the mainstream Philip heard this same laughing voice. After a time there fell a silence upon those ahead. No sound rose above the steady dip of paddles and the speed of the two canoes increased. Suddenly from far up the river there came a voice, faintly at first, but growing steadily louder, singing one of the wild half-breed songs of the forest. The voice broke the silence of those in the canoes. They ceased paddling and Philip stopped. He heard low words, and after a few moments the paddling was resumed and the canoes turned in toward the shore. Philip followed their movement, dropping fifty yards farther down the stream and thrust big birch bark alongside a thick balsam that had fallen into the river. The singing voice approached rapidly. Five minutes later a long company canoe floated down out of the gloom. It passed so near that Philip could see the picturesque figure in the stern, paddling and singing. In the bow kneeled an Indian working in stoic silence. Between them, in the body of the canoe, sat two men whom he knew at a glance were white men. The strangers and their craft slipped by with the quickness of a shadow. Again Philip heard movements above him, and once more he took up the pursuit. He wondered why Jean had not called for help when the company canoe passed. If she was not hurt or unconscious her captors had been forced to hold a handkerchief or a brutal hand over her mouth, perhaps at her throat. His blood grew hot with rage at the thought. For three quarters of an hour longer the swift paddling upstream continued without interruption. Then the river widened into a small lake, and Philip was compelled to hold back until the two canoes, which he could see clearly now, had passed over the exposed area. By the time he dared to follow Jean's captors were a quarter of a mile ahead of him. He no longer heard their paddles when he entered the stream at the upper end of the lake, and he bent to his work with greater energy and less caution. Five minutes, ten minutes passed, and he saw nothing, heard nothing. His strokes grew more powerful, and the canoe shot through the water with the swift cleavage of a knife. A perspiration began to gather on his face, and a sudden chilling fear entered him. Another five minutes and he stopped. The river swept out ahead of him, broad and clear, for a quarter of a mile. There was no sign of the canoes. For a few moments he remained motionless, drifting back with the slow current of the stream, stunned by the thought that he had allowed Jean's captors to escape him. Had they heard him and dropped into shore to let him pass? He swung his canoe about and headed downstream. In that case he could not miss them if he used caution. But if they had turned into some creek hidden in the gloom, were even now picking their way through a secret channel that led back from the river, a groan burst from his lips as he thought of Jean. In that half-mile of river he could surely find where the canoes had gone, but it might be too late. He went down in midstream, searching the shadows of both shores. His heart sank like lead when he came to the lake. There was but one thing to do now, and he ran his canoe close along the right-hand shore, looking for an opening. His progress was slow. A dozen times he entangled himself in masses of reeds and rice, or thrust himself under overhanging treetops and vines to investigate the deeper gloom beyond. He had returned two-thirds of the distance to the straight water where he had given up the pursuit when the bow of his canoe ran upon a smooth, sandy bar that shelved out thirty or forty feet from the shore. Scarcely had he felt the grate of sand when with a powerful shove he sent his canoe back, and almost in the same instant Pierre's rifle leveled menacingly shoreward. When up, high and dry on the sandbar, were the two canoes. For a space Philip expected that his appearance would be the signal for some movement ashore, but as he drifted slowly away, his rifle still leveled, he was filled more and more with the belief that he had not been discovered. He allowed himself to drift until he knew that he was hidden in the shadows, and then quietly worked himself in to shore. Making no sound, he pulled himself up the bank and crept along the trees toward the bar. There was no one guarding the canoes. He heard no sound of voice, no crackling of brush or movement of reeds. For a full minute he crouched and listened. Then he crept nearer and found where both reeds and brush were trampled down into a path that led away from the river. His heart gave a bound of joy and he darted along the path, holding his rifle ready for instant use. The trail wound through the tall grass of a dry swamp meadow, and two hundred yards beyond the river plunged into a forest. He had barely entered this when he saw the glow of a fire. It was only a short distance ahead, hidden in a deep hollow that completely concealed its existence from the keenest eyes that might pass along the river. Stealing cautiously to the crest of the little knoll between him and the light, Philip found himself within fifty feet of a camp. A big canvas tent was the first thing to come within his vision. The fire was built against this face of a rock in front of this, and over the fire hovered a man dragging out beds of coals with a forked stick. Almost at the same moment a second man appeared from the tent, bearing two huge skillets in one hand and a big pot in the other. At a glance Philip knew that they were preparing to cook a meal and that it was for many instead of two. He searched the firelit spaces and the shadows for a sign of Jean. He saw nothing. She was not in the camp. The five or six men who had fled up the river with her were not there. His fingers dug deep in the earth under him at the discovery, and once more appalling fears overwhelmed him. Perhaps he had already met her fate a little deeper in the forest. He crept over the edge of the knoll and worked himself down through the low bush on the opposite side, which would bring him within a dozen feet of the man over the fire. There he would have them at his mercy, and at the point of his revolver would compel them to tell him where Jean had been taken. The advantage was all in his favor. It would not be difficult to make them prisoners and leave them secured while he followed after their companions. He was in tent only upon his plan and did not take his eyes from the men over the fire. He came to the end of the bush and crouched with head and shoulders exposed, his revolver in his hand. Suddenly a sound close to the tent startled him. It was a low cough. The men over the fire made no movement to look behind them, but Philip turned. In the shadow of a tree, which had concealed her until now, sat Jean. She was tense and straight. Her white face was turned to him. Her beautiful eyes glowed like stars. Her lips were parted. He could see her quick, excited breathing. She saw him. She knew him. He could see the joy of hope in her face, and that she was crushing back an impulse to cry out to him. Even as he was restraining his own mad desire to shout out his defiance and joy, and there in the firelight his face illumined and oblivious for the moment of the presence of the two men, Philip straightened himself and held out his arms with a glad smile to Jean. Hardly had he turned to the men, ready to spring out upon them, when there came a terrific interruption. There was a sudden crash in the brush behind him, a menacing snarl, and a huge wolfish brute launched itself at his throat. The swift instinct of self-preservation turned to the weapon intended for the men over the fire upon this unexpected assailant. The snarling fangs of the husky were gleaming in his face, and the animal's body was against the muzzle of his revolver when Philip fired. Although he escaped the fangs, he could not ward off the impact of the dog's body, and in another moment he was sprawling upon his back in the light of the camp. Before Philip could recover himself, Jean startled guards were upon him. Flung back he still possessed his pistol and pulled the trigger blindly. The report was muffled and sickening. At the same moment a heavy blow fell upon his head and a furious weight crushed him back to the ground. He dropped his revolver. His brain reeled, his muscles relaxed. He felt his assailant's fingers at his throat, and their menace brought back every ounce of fighting strength in his body. For a moment he lay still, his eyes closed, the warm blood flowing over his face. He had worked this game once before, years ago. He even thought of that time now as he lay upon his back. It had worked then, and it worked now. The choking fingers at his throat loosened. The weight lifted itself a little from his chest. The lone guard thought that he was unconscious, and Jean, who had staggered to her feet, thought that he was dead. It was her cry, terrible, filled with agony and despair that urged him into action an instant too soon. His foe was still partly on his guard, rising with a caution born of more than one wilderness episode, when with a quick movement Philip closed with him. Locked in a deadly grip they rolled upon the ground, and with a feeling of despair which had never entered into his soul before, the terrible truth came to Philip that the old strength was gone from his arms and that with each added exertion he was growing weaker. For a moment he saw Jean. She stood almost above them, her hands clutched at her breast. And as he looked she suddenly turned and ran to the fire. An instant more and she was back, a red-hot brand in her hand. Philip sought flash close to his eyes, felt the heat of it, and then a scream, animal-like in its ferocity and pain, burst from the lips of his antagonist. The man reeled backward, clutching at his thick neck, where Jean had thrust the burning stick. Philip rose to his knees. His fist shot out like lightning against the other's jaw, and the second guard fell back in a limp heap. Even as the blow fell, a loud shout came from close back in the forest, followed by the crashing of many feet tearing through the underbrush.