in the night, a comrade.

Suddenly his fingers closed tightly over the handkerchief. He turned
and looked steadily at Gregson. His friend was sleeping, with his face
to the wall.

Would not Pierre return to the rock in search of these articles which
his sister had left behind? The thought set his blood tingling. He
would go back--and wait for Pierre. But if Pierre did not return--until
to-morrow?

He laughed softly to himself as he drew paper toward him and picked up
the pencil which Gregson had used. For many minutes he wrote steadily.
When he had done, he folded what he had written and tied it in the
handkerchief. The strip of lace with which Jeanne had bound her hair he
folded gently and placed in his breast pocket. There was a guilty flush
in his face as he stole silently to the door. What would Gregson say if
he knew that he--Phil Whittemore, the man whom he had once idealized as
"The Fighter," and whom he believed to be proof against all love of
woman--was doing this thing? He opened and closed the door softly.

At least he would send his message to these strange people of the
wilderness. They would know that he was not a part of that Churchill
which they hated, that in his heart he had ceased to be a thing of its
breed. He apologized again for his sudden appearance on the rock, but
the apology was only an excuse for other things which he wrote, in
which for a few brief moments he bared himself to those whom he knew
would understand, and asked that their acquaintance might be continued.
He felt that there was something almost boyish in what he was doing;
and yet, as he hurried over the ridge and down into Churchill again, he
was thrilled as no other adventure had ever thrilled him before. As he
approached the cliff he began to fear that the half-breed would not
return for the things which Jeanne had left, or that he had already
re-visited the rock. The latter thought urged him on until he was half
running. The crest of the cliff was bare when he reached it. He looked
at his watch. He had been gone an hour.

Where the moonlight seemed to fall brightest he dropped the
handkerchief, and then slipped back into the rocky trail that led to
the edge of the Bay. He had scarcely reached the strip of level beach
that lay between him and Churchill when from far behind him there came
the long howl of a dog. It was the wolf-dog. He knew it by the slow,
dismal rising of the cry and the infinite sadness with which it as