ter. He wanted to be alone, to realize fully what had happened, to
regain control of his emotions. If Isobel Becker had merely written him
a line or two, a note exculpating herself of what her father had already
explained away, he would still have thought that a world lay between
them. But, in place of that, she had sent him the faded flowers, with
their golden thread!

For many minutes he paced back and forth across his narrow room, and
never had a room looked more like a prison cell to him than this one did
now. He was filled with but one impulse, and that was to return to Lac
Bain, to humble himself at the feet of the woman he loved, and ask her
forgiveness for the heinous thing he had done. He wanted to tell her
that he had driven Bucky Nome into outlawry, that he had fought for
her, and run away himself--because he loved her. It was Sergeant Moody's
voice, vibrant with the rasping unpleasantness of a file, that jarred
him back into his practical self. He thrust the letter and the flowers
into his breast pocket, and opened the door.

Moody came in.

"What in blazes are you locked up for?" he demanded, his keen little
eyes scrutinizing Philip's feverish face. "Afraid somebody'll walk in
and steal you, Phil?"

"Headache," said Philip, patting a hand to his head. "One of the kind
that makes you think your brain must be a hard ball bumping around
inside your skull."

The sergeant laid his hand on Philip's arm.

"Go take a walk, Phil," he said, in a softer voice. "It will do you
good. I just came in to tell you the news. They've got track of DeBar
again, up near Lac la Biche. But we can talk about that later. Go take a
walk."

"Thanks for the suggestion," said Philip. "I believe I'll do it."

He passed beyond the barracks, and hit the sleigh-worn road that led out
of town, walking faster and faster, as his brain began working. He
would return to Lac Bain. That was settled in his mind without argument.
Nothing could hold him back after what he had received that afternoon.
If the letter and the violet message had come to him from the end of
the earth it would have made no difference; his determination would
have been the same. He would return to Lac Bain--but how? That was the
question which puzzled him. He still had thirteen months of service
ahead of him. He was not in line for a furlough. It would take at least
three months of official red tape to purchase his discharge. These facts
rose like barriers in his w