black rock where he had come upon Jeanne and Pierre. Clouds of
smoke rose about him, and he half closed his eyes. He saw the girl
again, as she stood there; he saw the moonlight shining in her
hair, the dark, startled beauty of her eyes as she turned upon
him; he heard again the low sobbing note in her voice as she cried
out her hatred against Churchill. He forgot Eileen Brokaw now,
forgot in these moments all that he and Gregson had talked of that
day. His schemes, his fears, his feverish eagerness to begin the
fight against his enemies died away in thoughts of the beautiful
girl who had come into his life this night. It seemed to him now
that he had known her for a long time, that she had been a part of
him always, and that it was her spirit that he had been groping
and searching for, and could never find. For the space of those
few moments on the cliff she had driven out the emptiness and the
loneliness from his heart, and there filled him a wild desire to
make her understand, to talk with her, to stand shoulder to
shoulder with Pierre out there in the night, a comrade.

Suddenly his fingers closed tightly over the handkerchief. He
turned and looked steadily at Gregson. His friend was sleeping,
with his face to the wall.

Would not Pierre return to the rock in search of these articles
which his sister had left behind? The thought set his blood
tingling. He would go back--and wait for Pierre. But if Pierre did
not return--until to-morrow?

He laughed softly to himself as he drew paper toward him and
picked up the pencil which Gregson had used. For many minutes he
wrote steadily. When he had done, he folded what he had written