and tied it in the handkerchief. The strip of lace with which
Jeanne had bound her hair he folded gently and placed in his
breast pocket. There was a guilty flush in his face as he stole
silently to the door. What would Gregson say if he knew that he--
Phil Whittemore, the man whom he had once idealized as "The
Fighter," and whom he believed to be proof against all love of
woman--was doing this thing? He opened and closed the door softly.

At least he would send his message to these strange people of the
wilderness. They would know that he was not a part of that
Churchill which they hated, that in his heart he had ceased to be
a thing of its breed. He apologized again for his sudden
appearance on the rock, but the apology was only an excuse for
other things which he wrote, in which for a few brief moments he
bared himself to those whom he knew would understand, and asked
that their acquaintance might be continued. He felt that there was
something almost boyish in what he was doing; and yet, as he
hurried over the ridge and down into Churchill again, he was
thrilled as no other adventure had ever thrilled him before. As he
approached the cliff he began to fear that the half-breed would
not return for the things which Jeanne had left, or that he had
already re-visited the rock. The latter thought urged him on until
he was half running. The crest of the cliff was bare when he
reached it. He looked at his watch. He had been gone an hour.

Where the moonlight seemed to fall brightest he dropped the
handkerchief, and then slipped back into the rocky trail that led
to the edge of the Bay. He had scarcely reached the strip of level
beach that lay between him and Churchill when from far behind him
there came the long howl of a dog. It was the wolf-dog. He knew it