And with these things there came another sensation, one that surprised and disquieted him.  A few days before his one desire had been to get out of the north country, to place as much distance as possible between himself and Lac Bain.  And now he found himself visibly affected by the thought that his duty was to take him once more in the direction of the woman whose sweet face had become an indissoluble part of his existence.  He would not see her.  Even at Wekusko he would be many days’ journey from Lac Bain.  But she would be nearer to him, and it was this that quickened his pulse.

He was ten minutes early for his train, and employed that interval in mingling among the people at the station.  MacGregor had as much as told him that whatever unusual thing might develop depended entirely upon the appearance of the woman and he began to look for her.  She was not at the station.  Twice he walked through the coaches of his train without discovering a face that resembled that in the photograph.

It was late when he arrived at Etomami, where the sixty mile line of the Hudson’s Bay Railroad branches off to the north.  At dawn he entered the caboose of the work train, which was to take him up through the wilderness to Le Pas.  He was the only passenger.

“There ain’t even a hand-car gone up ahead of us,” informed the brakeman in response to his inquiry.  “This is the only train in five days.”

After all, it was to be a tame affair, in spite of the inspector’s uneasiness and warnings, thought Philip.  The woman was not ahead of him.  Two days before she had been in MacGregor’s office, and under the circumstances it was impossible for her to be at Le Pas or at Wekusko, unless she had traveled steadily on dog sledge.  Philip swore softly to himself in his disappointment, ate breakfast with the train gang, went to sleep, and awoke when they plowed their way into the snow-smothered outpost on the Saskatchewan.

The brakeman handed him a letter.

“This came on the Le Pas mail,” he explained.  “I kept it out for you instead of sending it to the office.”

“Thank you,” said Philip.  “A special—­from headquarters.  Why in thunder didn’t they send me a messenger instead of a letter, Braky?  They could have caught me on the train.”

He tore open the departmental envelope as he spoke and drew forth a bit of folded paper.  It was not the official letter-head, but at a glance Philip recognized the inspector’s scrawling writing and his signature.  It was one of MacGregor’s quiet boasts that the man did not live who could forge his name.  An astonished whistle broke from his lips as he read these few lines: 

Follow your conscience, whatever you do.  Both God and man will reward you in the end.

Felix MacGregor.