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
Brokaw 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 Jeanne and Pierre. The facts 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 in the desire
to intercept Jeanne and Pierre before they could leave Churchill. Miss
Brokaw 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 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--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 Brokaw 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 Brokaw and the factor, who were close behind them.
"I am compelled to leave you here," he explained. "I have excused
myself to Miss Brokaw, and will rejoin you almost immediately."
He lost no time in hurrying back to the shore of the Bay. As he had
expected, Jeanne 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 Jeanne 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 it held for him. But they were
sufficient to set his heart, beating wildly.
Will Monsieur come to the top of the rock to-night, some time between
the hours of nine and ten.
There was no signature to the note, but Philip knew that only Jeanne
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 a quaintness 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 sway 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 Jeanne
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 Jeanne and Pierre. It was the thought of Jeanne, and not of 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 Brokaw
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 hove in sight off Churchill she hasn't been within
two hundred miles of a coast this side of Hudson's Strait. Miss Brokaw
is as new to this country as you. It is beyond all reason to suppose
anything else."
"Nevertheless," said Gregson, quietly, "it was Miss Brokaw whom I saw
the other day, and that is Miss Brokaw'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 Brokaw," 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 Brokaw," hesitated Philip.
"Almost--but not quite," Gregson caught him up. "Brokaw 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 Brokaws. 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 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 Brokaw was the girl whose
face he had seen more than a week before. Was it possible, after all,
that the ship had touched at some point up the coast? The supposition
was preposterous. Yet before rejoining the Brokaws 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 Brokaw 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, Jeanne and Pierre
must also be mixed up in the affair. For had not Jeanne, 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 Brokaw and his daughter. Brokaw 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 Brokaw 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, earning dividends. I've even
gone to the point of making contracts that show us five hundred per
cent, 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's silence, 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 will 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."
Brokaw 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 Brokaw, completely master of himself, never
revealing himself beyond the unruffled veil of his self-possession, and
Philip was surprised. He had expected that Brokaw's wily brain would
bring with it half a dozen schemes for the quiet undoing of their
enemies. And now here was Brokaw, the man who always hedged himself in
with legal breast-works--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 Brokaw 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 Brokaw 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 Brokaw. "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?"
Brokaw 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. Should he break his word to
Gregson and tell Brokaw of Lord Fitzhugh? But, on second thought, what
good would come of it? Brokaw 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. Brokaw would follow two or three days
later.
A heavy weight seemed lifted from Philip's shoulders when he left
Brokaw. 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 Jeanne. 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 Jeanne 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 Jeanne's own people did not destroy
his hopefulness, the new joy and excitement that he had found in life.
As he hurried back to his cabin he told himself that both Jeanne 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 it came to fighting they three, Pierre,
Jeanne, 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; Brokaw had
acknowledged his own surrender. He was to fight--a clean, fair fight on
his part, and his blood leaped in every vein like marshaling armies.
That nights on the rock, he would reveal himself frankly to Pierre and
Jeanne. 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 and the revolver which usually hung over Gregson's bunk
were gone. He never entered the cabin without looking at the sketch of
Eileen Brokaw. 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
Brokaws 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 Jeanne. 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
factor's, and the door leading into Miss Brokaw's room was partly ajar.
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 Brokaw 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 Jeanne's hair!
Eileen moved toward him. "Philip," she said, "now are you glad to see
me?"