Would not Pierre return to the rock in search of these articles which his sister had left behind?  The thought set his blood tingling.  He would go back—­and wait for Pierre.  But if Pierre did not return—­until to-morrow?

He laughed softly to himself as he drew paper toward him and picked up the pencil which Gregson had used.  For many minutes he wrote steadily.  When he had done, he folded what he had written and tied it in the handkerchief.  The strip of lace with which Jeanne had bound her hair he folded gently and placed in his breast pocket.  There was a guilty flush in his face as he stole silently to the door.  What would Gregson say if he knew that he—­ Phil Whittemore, the man whom he had once idealized as “The Fighter,” and whom he believed to be proof against all love of woman—­was doing this thing?  He opened and closed the door softly.

At least he would send his message to these strange people of the wilderness.  They would know that he was not a part of that Churchill which they hated, that in his heart he had ceased to be a thing of its breed.  He apologized again for his sudden appearance on the rock, but the apology was only an excuse for other things which he wrote, in which for a few brief moments he bared himself to those whom he knew would understand, and asked that their acquaintance might be continued.  He felt that there was something almost boyish in what he was doing; and yet, as he hurried over the ridge and down into Churchill again, he was thrilled as no other adventure had ever thrilled him before.  As he approached the cliff he began to fear that the half-breed would not return for the things which Jeanne had left, or that he had already re-visited the rock.  The latter thought urged him on until he was half running.  The crest of the cliff was bare when he reached it.  He looked at his watch.  He had been gone an hour.

Where the moonlight seemed to fall brightest he dropped the handkerchief, and then slipped back into the rocky trail that led to the edge of the Bay.  He had scarcely reached the strip of level beach that lay between him and Churchill when from far behind him there came the long howl of a dog.  It was the wolf-dog.  He knew it by the slow, dismal rising of the cry and the infinite sadness with which it as slowly died away until lost in the whisperings of the forest and the gentle wash of the sea.  Pierre was returning.  He was coming back through the forest.  Perhaps Jeanne would be with him.

For the third time Philip climbed back to the great moonlit rock at the top of the cliff.  Eagerly he faced the north, whence the wailing cry of the wolf-dog had come.  Then he turned to the spot where he had dropped the handkerchief, and his heart gave a sudden jump.

There was nothing on the rock.  The handkerchief was gone!

VII

Philip stood undecided, his ears strained to catch the slightest sound.  Ten minutes had not elapsed since he had dropped the handkerchief.  Pierre could not have gone far among the rocks.  It was possible that he was concealed somewhere near him now.  Softly he called his name.