He searched until late in the afternoon, but found no signs of a recent camp.  For several miles he followed the main trail that led northward from Fort Churchill.  He crossed three times through the country between this trail and the edge of the Bay, searching for smoke from the top of every ridge that he climbed, listening for any sound that might give him a clue.  He visited the shack of an old half-breed deep in the forest beyond the cliff, but its aged tenant could give him no information.  He had not seen Pierre and Jeanne, nor had he heard the howling of their dog.

Tired and disappointed, Philip returned to Churchill.  He went directly to his cabin and found Gregson waiting for him.  There was a curious look in the artist’s face as he gazed questioningly at his friend.  His immaculate appearance was gone.  He looked like one who had passed through an uncomfortable hour or two.  Perspiration had dried in dirty streaks on his face, and his hands were buried dejectedly in his trousers pockets.  He rose to his feet and stood before his companion.

“Look at me, Phil—­take a good long look,” he urged.

Philip stared.

“Am I awake?” demanded the artist.  “Do I look like a man in his right senses?  Eh, tell me!”

He turned and pointed to the sketch hanging against the wall.

“Did I see that girl, or didn’t I?” he went on, not waiting for Philip to answer.  “Did I dream of seeing her?  Eh?  By thunder, Phil—­” He whirled upon his companion, a glow of excitement taking the place of the fatigue in his eyes.  “I couldn’t find her to-day.  I’ve hunted in every shack and brush heap in and around Churchill.  I’ve hunted until I’m so tired I can hardly stand up.  And the devil of it is, I can find no one else who got more than a glimpse of her, and then they did not see her as I did.  She had nothing on her head when I saw her, but I remember now that something like a heavy veil fell about her shoulders, and that she was lifting it when she passed.  Anyway, no one saw her like—­that.”  He pointed to the sketch.  “And she’s gone—­gone as completely as though she came in a flying-machine and went away in one.  She’s gone—­unless—­”

“What?”

“Unless she is in concealment right here in Churchill.  She’s gone —­or hiding.”

“You have reason to suspect that she would be hiding,” said Philip, concealing the effect of the other’s words upon him.

Gregson was uneasy.  He lighted a cigarette, puffed at it once or twice, and tossed it through the open door.  Suddenly he reached in his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.

“Deuce take it, if I know whether I have or not!” he cried.  “But—­ look here, Phil.  I saw the mail come in to-day, and I walked up as bold as you please and asked if there was anything for Lord Fitzhugh.  I showed the other letter, and said I was Fitzhugh’s agent.  It went.  And I got—­this!”

Philip snatched at the letter which Gregson held out to him.  His fingers trembled as he unfolded the single sheet of paper which he drew forth.  Across it was written a single line: