g white on the rock near where the girl had been sitting caught
Philip's eyes. In a moment he held in his fingers a small handkerchief
and a broad ribbon of finely knit lace. In her haste to get away she
had forgotten these things. He was about to run to the crest of the
cliff and call loudly for Pierre Couchee when he held the handkerchief
and the lace close to his face and the delicate perfume of heliotrope
stopped him. There was something familiar about it, something that held
him wondering and mystified, until he knew that he had lost the
opportunity to recall Pierre and his companion. He looked at the
handkerchief more, closely. It was a dainty fabric, so soft that it
gave barely the sensation of touch when he crushed it in the palm of
his hand. For a few moments he was puzzled to account for the filmy
strip of lace. Then the truth came to him. Jeanne had used it to bind
her hair!

He laughed softly, joyously, as he wound the bit of fabric about his
fingers and retraced his steps toward Churchill. Again and again he
pressed the tiny handkerchief to his face, breathing of its sweetness;
and the action suddenly stirred his memory to the solution of its
mystery. It was this same sweetness that had come to him on the night
that he had looked down into the beautiful face of Eileen Brokaw at the
Brokaw ball. He remembered now that Eileen Brokaw loved heliotrope, and
that she always wore a purple heliotrope at her white throat or in the
gold of her hair. For a moment it struck him as singular that so many
things had happened this day to remind him of Brokaw's daughter. The
thought hastened his steps. He was anxious to look at the picture
again, to convince himself that he had been mistaken. Gregson was
asleep when he re-entered the cabin. The light was burning low, and
Philip turned up the wick. On the table was the picture as Gregson had
left it. This time there was no doubt. He had drawn the face of Eileen
Brokaw. In a spirit of jest he had written under it, "The Wife of Lord
Fitzhugh."

In spite of their absurdity the words affected Philip curiously. Was it
possible that Miss Brokaw had reached Fort Churchill in some other way
than by ship? And, if not, was it possible that in this remote corner
of the earth there was another woman who resembled her so closely?
Philip took a step toward Gregson, half determined to awaken him. And
yet, on second thought, he knew that Gregson could not explain. Even if
the artist had l