“Pierre—­ho, Pierre Couchee!”

There was no answer, and in the next breath he was sorry that he had called.  He went silently down the trail.  He had come to the edge of Churchill when once more he heard the howl of the dog far back in the forest.  He stopped to locate as nearly as he could the point whence the sound came, for he was certain now that the dog had not returned with Pierre, but had remained with Jeanne, and was howling from their camp.

Gregson was awake and sitting on the edge of his bunk when Philip entered the cabin.

“Where the deuce have you been?” he demanded.  “I was just trying to make up my mind to go out and hunt for you.  Stolen—­lost—­or something like that?”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Philip, truthfully.

“So have I,” said Gregson.  “Ever since you came back, wrote that letter, and went out again—­”

“You were asleep,” corrected Philip.  “I looked at you.”

“Perhaps I was—­when you looked.  But I have a hazy recollection of you sitting there at the table, writing like a fiend.  Anyway, I’ve been thinking ever since you went out of the door, and—­I’d like to read that Lord Fitzhugh letter again.”

Philip handed him the letter.  He was quite sure from his friend’s manner of speaking that he had seen nothing of the handkerchief and the lace.

Gregson seized the paper lazily, yawned, and slipped it under the blanket which he had doubled up for a pillow.

“Do you mind if I keep it for a few days.  Phil?” he asked.

“Not in the least, if you’ll tell me why you want it,” said Philip.

“I will—­when I discover a reason myself,” replied his friend, coolly, stretching himself out again in the bunk.  “Remember when I dreamed that Carabobo planter was sticking a knife into you, Phil?—­and the next day he tried it?  Well, I’ve had a funny dream, I want to sleep on this letter.  I may want to sleep on it for a week.  Better turn in if you expect to get a wink between now and morning.”

For half an hour after he had undressed and extinguished the light Philip lay awake reviewing the incidents of his night’s adventure.  He was certain that his letter was in the hands of Pierre and Jeanne, but he was not so sure that they would respond to it.  He half expected that they would not, and yet he felt a deep sense of satisfaction in what he had done.  If he met them again he would not be quite a stranger.  And that he would meet them he was not only confident, but determined.  If they did not appear in Fort Churchill he would hunt out their camp.

He found himself asking a dozen questions, none of which he could answer.  Who was this girl who had come like a queen from out of the wilderness, and this man who bore with him the manner of a courtier?  Was it possible, after all, that they were of the forests?  And where was Fort o’ God?  He had never heard of it before, and as he thought of Jeanne’s strange, rich dress, of the heliotrope-scented handkerchief, of the old-fashioned rapier at Pierre’s side, and of the exquisite grace with which the girl had left him he wondered if such a place as this Fort o’ God must be could exist in the heart of the desolate northland.  Pierre had said that they had come from Fort o’ God.  But were they a part of it?