Philip nodded.

“I could not help it.  I was facing her.  And since then I have thought that I—­unconsciously—­was the cause of her perturbation.  I am Philip Curtis, Colonel McCloud, from Fort MacPherson, two thousand miles north of here, on the Mackenzie Kiver.  So you see, if it is a case of mistaken identity—­”

“No—­no—­it is not that,” interrupted the older man.  “As we were passing your table we—­my daughter—­heard you speak a name.  Perhaps she was mistaken.  It was—­Peter God.”

“Yes.  I know Peter God.  He is a friend of mine.”

Barrow was returning.  The other saw him over Philip’s shoulder, and his voice trembled with a sudden and subdued excitement as he said quickly: 

“Your friend is coming’ back.  No one but you must know that my daughter is interested in this man—­Peter God.  She trusts you.  She sent me to you.  It is important that she should see you to-night and talk with you alone.  I will wait for you outside.  I will have a taxicab ready to take you to our apartments.  Will you come?”

He had risen.  Philip heard Barrow’s footsteps behind him.

“I will come,” he said.

A few minutes later Colonel McCloud and his daughter left the cafe.  The half-hour after that passed with leaden slowness to Philip.  The fortunate arrival of two or three friends of Barrow gave him an opportunity to excuse himself on the plea of an important engagement, and he bade the Mica King good-night.  Colonel McCloud was waiting for him outside the cafe, and as they entered a taxicab, he said: 

“My daughter is quite unstrung to-night, and I sent her home.  She is waiting for us.  Will you have a smoke, Mr. Curtis?”

With a feeling that this night had set stirring a brew of strange and unforeseen events for him, Philip sat in a softly lighted and richly furnished room and waited.  The Colonel had been gone a full quarter-hour.  He had left a box half filled with cigars on a table at Philip’s elbow, pressing him to smoke.  They were an English brand of cigar, and on the box was stamped the name of the Montreal dealer from whom they had been purchased.

“My daughter will come presently,” Colonel McCloud had said.

A curious thrill shot through Philip as he heard her footsteps and the soft swish of her skirt.  Involuntarily he rose to his feet as she entered the room.  For fully ten seconds they stood facing each other without speaking.  She was dressed in filmy gray stuff.  There was lace at her throat.  She had shifted the thick bright coils of her hair to the crown of her head; a splendid glory of hair, he thought.  Her cheeks were flushed, and with her hands against her breast, she seemed crushing back the strange excitement that glowed in her eyes.  Once he had seen a fawn’s eyes that looked like hers.  In them were suspense, fear—­a yearning that was almost pain.  Suddenly she came to him, her hands outstretched.  Involuntarily, too, he took them.  They were warm and soft.  They thrilled him—­and they clung to him.