Chapter VI.  Philip Follows A Pretty Face

It was late in the afternoon when Philip’s instructions came from the inspector.  They were tersely official in form, gave him all necessary authority, and ordered him to leave for Le Pas that night.  Pinned to the order was a small slip of paper, and on this MacGregor had repeated in writing his words of a few hours before:  “Whatever happens, bring back your prisoner.”

There was no signature to this slip, and the first two words were heavily underscored.  What did this double caution mean?  Coming from a man like MacGregor, who was as choice as a king of his advice, Philip knew that it was of unusual significance.  If it was intended as a warning, why had not the inspector given him more detail?  During the hour in which he was preparing for his journey he racked his brain for some clew to the situation.  The task which he was about to perform seemed simple enough.  A man named Thorpe had attempted murder at Wekusko.  He was already a prisoner, and he was to bring him down.  The biggest coward in Saskatchewan, or a man from a hospital bed, could do this much, and yet—­

He read the inspector’s words over and over again.  “Whatever happens!” In spite of himself a little stir of excitement crept into his blood.  Since that thrilling hour in which he had seen Bucky Nome desert from the service he had not felt himself moved as now, and in a moment of mental excitement he found himself asking a question which a few minutes before he would have regarded as a mark of insanity.  Was it possible that in the whole of the Northland there could be another woman as beautiful as Colonel Becker’s wife—­a woman so beautiful that she had turned even Inspector MacGregor’s head, as Mrs. Becker had turned Bucky Nome’s—­and his?  Was it possible that between these two women—­between this wife of an attempted murderer and Mrs. Becker there was some connecting link—­some association—­

He cut his thoughts short with a low exclamation of disgust.  The absurdity of the questions he had asked himself brought a flush into his face.  But he could not destroy the undercurrent of emotions they had aroused.  Anyway, something was going to happen.  He was sure of that.  The inspector’s actions, his words, his mysterious nervousness, the strange catch in his voice as they parted, all assured him that there was a good reason for the repeated warning.  And whatever did happen was to be brought about by the woman whose girlish beauty he had looked upon in the picture.  That MacGregor was aware of the nature of his peril, if he was to run into danger at all, he was sure, and he was equally certain that some strong motive restrained the inspector from saying more than he had.  Already he began to scent in the adventure ahead of him those elements of mystery, of excitement, even of romance, the craving for which was an inherited part of his being.