The process of mental induction occasionally does not pause to
reason its way, but leaps to an immediate and startling finality,
which, by reason of its very suddenness, is for a space like the
shock of a sudden blow. After that one gasp of amazement Philip
made no sound. He spoke no word to Pierre. In a sudden lull of the
wind sweeping over the cabin the ticking of his watch was like the
beating of a tiny drum. Then, slowly, his eyes rose from the
silken thread in his fingers and met Pierre's. Each knew what the
other was thinking. If the hair had been black. If it had been
brown. Even had it been of the coarse red of the blond Eskimo of
the upper Mackenzie! But it was gold--shimmering gold.

Still without speaking, Philip drew a knife from his pocket and
cut the shining thread above the second knot, and worked at the
finely wrought weaving of the silken filaments until a tress of
hair, crinkled and waving, lay on the table before them. If he had
possessed a doubt, it was gone now. He could not remember where he
had ever seen just that colored gold in a woman's hair. Probably
he had, at one time or another. It was not red gold. It possessed
no coppery shades and lights as it rippled there in the lamp glow.
It was flaxen, and like spun silk--so fine that, as he looked at
it, he marveled at the patience that had woven it into a snare.
Again he looked at Pierre. The same question was in their eyes.

"It must be--that Bram has a woman with him," said Pierre.

"It must be," said Philip. "Or--"