Philip had made his “strike,” away up on the Mackenzie.  That day he had sold out to Barrow for a hundred thousand.  To-night he was filled with the flush of joy and triumph.

Barrow’s eyes shone with a new sort of enthusiasm as he listened to this man’s story of grim and fighting determination that had led to the discovery of that mountain of mica away up on the Clearwater Bulge.  He looked upon the other’s strength, his bronzed face and the glory of achievement in his eyes, and a great and yearning hopelessness burned like a dull fire in his heart.  He was no older than the man who sat on the other side of the table—­perhaps thirty-five; yet what a vast gulf lay between them!  He with his millions; the other with that flood of red blood coming and going in his body, and his wonderful fortune of a hundred thousand!  Barrow leaned a little over the table, and laughed.  It was the laugh of a man who had grown tired of life, in spite of his millions.  Day before yesterday a famous specialist had warned him that the threads of his life were giving way, one by one.  He told this to Curtis.  He confessed to him, with that strange glow in his eyes,—­a glow that was like making a last fight against total extinguishment,—­that he would give up his millions and all he had won for the other’s health and the mountain of mica.

“And if it came to a close bargain,” he said, “I wouldn’t hold out for the mountain.  I’m ready to quit—­and it’s too late.”

Which, after a little, brought Philip Curtis to tell so much as he knew of the story of Peter God.  Philip’s voice was tuned with the winds and the forests.  It rose above the low and monotonous hum about them.  People at the two or three adjoining tables might have heard his story, if they had listened.  Within the immaculateness of his evening dress, Barrows shivered, fearing that Curtis’ voice might attract undue attention to them.  But other people were absorbed in themselves.  Philip went on with his story, and at last, so clearly that it reached easily to the other tables, he spoke the name of Peter God.

Then came the interruption, and with that interruption a strange and sudden upheaval in the life of Philip Curtis that was to mean more to him than the discovery of the mica mountain.  His eyes swept over Barrow’s shoulder, and there he saw a woman.  She was standing.  A low, stifled cry had broken from her almost simultaneously with his first glimpse of her, and as he looked, Philip saw her lips form gaspingly the name he had spoken—­Peter God!

She was so near that Barrow could have turned and touched her.  Her eyes were like luminous fires as she stared at Philip.  Her face was strangely pale.  He could see her quiver, and catch her breath.  And she was looking at him.  For that one moment she had forgotten the presence of others.

Then a hand touched her arm.  It was the hand of her elderly escort, in whose face were anxiety and wonder.  The woman started and took her eyes from Philip.  With her escort she seated herself at a table a few paces away, and for a few moments Philip could see she was fighting for composure, and that it cost her a struggle to keep her eyes from turning in his direction while she talked in a low voice to her companion.