The inspector paused to light his cigar, which had gone out.  Then he added:  “If you’ll do this, Steele—­and care for it—­I’ll see that you get your promotion.”

As he finished, he tossed the photograph across the desk.  “That’s she.  Don’t ask me how I got the picture.”

A curious thrill shot through Philip as he picked up the bit of cardboard.  It was a wondrously sweet face that looked squarely out of it into his eyes, a face so youthful, so filled with childish prettiness that an exclamation of surprise rose to his lips.  Under other circumstances he would have sworn that it was the picture of a school-girl.  He looked up, about to speak, but MacGregor had turned again to the window, clouds of smoke about his head.  He spoke without turning his head.

“That was taken nearly ten years ago,” he said, and Philip knew that he was making an effort to keep an unnatural break out of his voice.  “But there has been little change—­almost none.  His name is Thorpe.  I will send you a written order this afternoon and you can start to-night.”

Philip rose, and waited.

“Is there nothing more?” he asked, after a moment.  “This woman—­”

“There is nothing more,” interrupted the inspector, still looking out through the window.

“Only this, Steele—­you must bring him back.  Whatever happens, bring back your prisoner.”

As he turned to leave, Philip fancied that he caught something else—­a stifled, choking breath, a sound that made him turn his head again as he went through the door.  The inspector had not moved.

“Now what the deuce does this mean?” he asked himself, closing the door softly behind him.  “You’re up against something queer this time, Philip Steele, I’ll wager dollars to doughnuts.  Promotion for bringing in a prisoner!  What in thunder—­”

He stopped for a moment in one of the cleared paths.  From the big low roofed drill enclosure a hundred yards away came the dull thud of galloping hoofs and the voice of Sergeant Moody thundering instructions to the rookies.  Moody had a heart like flint and would have faced blazing cannon to perform his duty.  He had grown old and ugly in the service and was as beauty-proof as an ogre of stone.  Why hadn’t MacGregor sent him?

Beauty-proof!  The words sent a swift rush of thought, of regret, of the old homesickness and longing through Philip as he returned to his quarters.  He wondered just how much MacGregor knew, and he sat down to bring up before him for the thousandth time a vision of the two faces that had played their part in his life—­the face of the girl at home, as beautiful as a Diane de Poitiers, as soulless as a sphinx, who had offered herself to him in return for his name and millions, and of that other which he had met away up in the frozen barrens of Lac Bain.  Beauty-proof!  He laughed and loaded his pipe.  MacGregor had made a good guess, even though he did not know what had passed that winter before he came north to seek adventure, or of the fight he had made for another woman, with Mr. Bucky Nome—­deserter!