could see Gregson bending over the table, already at work on the
picture. He confessed that the sketch had startled him. He knew
that it had sent the hot blood rushing to his face, and that only
through a fortunate circumstance had Gregson ascribed its effect
upon him to something that was wide of the truth. Miss Brokaw was
a thousand or more miles away. At this moment she was somewhere in
the North Atlantic, if their ship had left Halifax. She had never
been in the north. More than that, he knew that Gregson had never
seen Miss Brokaw, and had heard of her only through himself and
the society columns of the newspapers. How could he explain his
possession of the sketch?

He drew a step or two nearer to the open door, and stopped again.
If he returned to question Gregson it would draw him perilously
near to explanations which he did not care to make, to the one
secret which he wished to guard from his friend's knowledge. After
all, the picture was only a resemblance. It could be nothing but a
resemblance, even though it was so striking and unusual that it
had thrown him off his guard at first. When he returned later and
looked at it again he would no doubt be able to see his error.

He walked on through the spruce shadows and up a narrow trail that
led to the bald knob of the ridge, feeling his way with his right
hand before him when the denseness of the forest shut out the
light of the stars and the moon, until at last he stood out strong
and clear under the glow of the skies, with the world sweeping out
in black and gray mystery around him. To the north was the Bay,
reaching away like a vast black plain. Half a mile distant two or
three lights were burning over Fort Churchill, red eyes peering up
out of the deep pool of darkness; to the south and west there