way through the room, was this
first impression swept back by his swift and closer observation of
detail. About him extreme age was curiously blended with the modern.
His breath stopped short when he saw in the shadow of the farther wall
a piano, with a bronze lamp suspended from the ceiling above it. His
eyes caught the shadowy outline of cases filled with books; he saw
close to the fireplace wide, low-built divans covered with cushions;
and over the door through which they passed hung a framed copy of da
Vinci's masterpiece, "La Joconde," the Smiling Woman.

Into a dimly lighted hall he followed Jean, who paused a moment later
before another door, which he opened. Philip waited while he struck a
match and lighted a lamp. He knew at a glance that this was to be his
sleeping apartment, and as he took in its ample comfort, the broad low
bed behind its old-fashioned curtains, the easy chairs, the small table
covered with books and magazines, and the richly furred rugs on the
floor, he experienced a new and strange feeling of restfulness and
pleasure which for the moment overshadowed his more excited sensations.
Jean was already on his knees before a fireplace touching a match to a
pile of birch, and as the inflammable bark spurted into flame and the
small logs began to crackle he rose to his feet and faced Philip. Both
were soaked to the skin. Jean's hair hung lank and wet about his face,
and his hollow cheeks were cadaverous. In spite of the hour and the
place, Philip could not restrain a laugh.

"I'm glad Josephine was thoughtful enough to come in ahead of us,
Jean," he chuckled. "We look like a couple of drowned water-rats!"

"I will bring up your sack, M'sieur," responded Jean. "If you haven't
dry clothes of your own you will find garments behind the curtains. I
think some of them will fit you. After we are warmed and dried we will
have supper."

A few moments after Jean left him an Indian woman brought him a pail of
hot water. He was half stripped and enjoying a steaming sponge bath
when Croisset returned with his dunnage sack. The Arctic had not left
him much to choose from, but behind the curtains which Jean had pointed
out to him he found a good-sized wardrobe. He glowed with warmth and
comfort when he had finished dressing. The chill was gone from his
blood. He no longer felt the ache in his arms and back. He lighted his
pipe, and for a few moments stood with his back to the crackling fire,
listening and wai