Flower of the North by James Oliver Curwood
page 62 of 271 (22%)
page 62 of 271 (22%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
"Look at me, Phil--take a good long look," he urged.
Philip stared. "Am I awake?" demanded the artist. "Do I look like a man in his right senses? Eh, tell me!" He turned and pointed to the sketch hanging against the wall. "Did I see that girl, or didn't I?" he went on, not waiting for Philip to answer. "Did I dream of seeing her? Eh? By thunder, Phil--" He whirled upon his companion, a glow of excitement taking the place of the fatigue in his eyes. "I couldn't find her to-day. I've hunted in every shack and brush heap in and around Churchill. I've hunted until I'm so tired I can hardly stand up. And the devil of it is, I can find no one else who got more than a glimpse of her, and then they did not see her as I did. She had nothing on her head when I saw her, but I remember now that something like a heavy veil fell about her shoulders, and that she was lifting it when she passed. Anyway, no one saw her like--that." He pointed to the sketch. "And she's gone--gone as completely as though she came in a flying-machine and went away in one. She's gone--unless--" "What?" "Unless she is in concealment right here in Churchill. She's gone --or hiding." "You have reason to suspect that she would be hiding," said Philip, concealing the effect of the other's words upon him. |
|