he
half-hour after that passed with leaden slowness to Philip. The
fortunate arrival of two or three friends of Barrow gave him an
opportunity to excuse himself on the plea of an important engagement,
and he bade the Mica King good-night. Colonel McCloud was waiting for
him outside the cafe, and as they entered a taxicab, he said:

"My daughter is quite unstrung to-night, and I sent her home. She is
waiting for us. Will you have a smoke, Mr. Curtis?"

With a feeling that this night had set stirring a brew of strange and
unforeseen events for him, Philip sat in a softly lighted and richly
furnished room and waited. The Colonel had been gone a full
quarter-hour. He had left a box half filled with cigars on a table at
Philip's elbow, pressing him to smoke. They were an English brand of
cigar, and on the box was stamped the name of the Montreal dealer from
whom they had been purchased.

"My daughter will come presently," Colonel McCloud had said.

A curious thrill shot through Philip as he heard her footsteps and the
soft swish of her skirt. Involuntarily he rose to his feet as she
entered the room. For fully ten seconds they stood facing each other
without speaking. She was dressed in filmy gray stuff. There was lace
at her throat. She had shifted the thick bright coils of her hair to
the crown of her head; a splendid glory of hair, he thought. Her cheeks
were flushed, and with her hands against her breast, she seemed
crushing back the strange excitement that glowed in her eyes. Once he
had seen a fawn's eyes that looked like hers. In them were suspense,
fear--a yearning that was almost pain. Suddenly she came to him, her
hands outstretched. Involuntarily, too, he took them. They were warm
and soft. They thrilled him--and they clung to him.

"I am Josephine McCloud," she said. "My father has explained to you?
You know--a man--who calls himself--God?"

Her fingers clung more tightly to his, and the sweetness of her hair,
her breath, her eyes were very close as she waited.

"Yes, I know a man who calls himself Peter God."

"Tell me--what he is like?" she whispered. "He is tall--like you?"

"No. He is of medium height."

"And his hair? It is dark--dark like yours?"

"No. It is blond, and a little gray."

"And he is young--younger than you?"

"He is older."

"And his eyes--are dark?"

He felt rather than heard the throbbing of her heart as she waited for
him to reply. There was a reason why he would never fo