CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Out of these dreams he was awakened by a sound that had slowly and persistently become a part of his mental consciousness.  It was a tap, tap, tap at his window.  At last he sat up and listened.  It was in the gray gloom of dawn.  Again the sound was repeated:  tap, tap, tap on the pane of glass.

He slipped out of bed, his hand seeking the automatic under his pillow.  He had slept with the window partly open.  Covering it with his pistol, he called: 

“Who is there?”

“A runner from Jean Croisset,” came back a cautious voice.  “I have a written message for you, M’sieur.”

He saw an arm thrust through the window, in the hand a bit of paper.  He advanced cautiously until he could see the face that was peering in.  It was a thin, dark, fur-hooded face, with eyes black and narrow like Jean’s, a half-breed.  He seized the paper, and, still watching the face and arm, lighted a lamp.  Not until he had read the note did his suspicion leave him.

This is Pierre Langlois, my friend of the Pipestone.  If anything should happen that you need me quickly let him come after me.  You may trust him.  He will put up his tepee in the thick timber close to the dog pit.  We have fought together.  L’Ange saved his wife from the smallpox.  I am going westward.

Jean.

Philip sprang back to the window and gripped the mittened hand that still hung over the sill.

“I’m glad to know you, Pierre!  Is there no other word from Jean?”

“Only the note, Ookimow.”

“You just came?”

“Aha.  My dogs and sledge are back in the forest.”

“Listen!” Philip turned toward the door.  In the hall he heard footsteps.  “Le M’sieur is awake,” he said quickly to Pierre.  “I will see you in the forest!”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the half-breed was gone.  A moment later Philip knew that it was Adare who had passed his door.  He dressed and shaved himself before he left his room.  He found Adare in his study.  Metoosin already had a fire burning, and Adare was standing before this alone, when Philip entered.  Something was lacking in Adare’s greeting this morning.  There was an uneasy, searching look in his eyes as he looked at Philip.  They shook hands, and his hand was heavy and lifeless.  His shoulders seemed to droop a little more, and his voice was unnatural when he spoke.

“You did not go to bed until quite late last night, Philip?”

“Yes, it was late, Mon Pere.”

For a moment Adare was silent, his head bowed, his eyes on the floor.  He did not raise his gaze when he spoke again.

“Did you hear anything—­late—­about midnight?” he asked.  He straightened, and looked steadily into Philip’s eyes.  “Did you see Miriam?”

For an instant Philip felt that it was useless to attempt concealment under the searching scrutiny of the older man’s eyes.  Like an inspiration came to him a thought of Josephine.