Philip stared, still incredulous.  He had never seen Gregson as he looked now.  The artist advanced no farther.  He did not hold out his hand.  There was none of the joy of meeting in his face.  His eyes shifted to the door that led into the death-chamber, and they were filled with the gloom of a condemned man.  With a low word Philip held out his hand to meet his old comrade’s.  Gregson drew back.

“No—­not now,” he said.  “Wait—­until you have heard me.”

Something in his cold, passionless voice stopped Philip.  He saw Gregson glance toward MacDougall, and understood what he meant.  Going to the engineer, he placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke so that only he could hear.

“She is in there, Mac—­with Pierre.  She wanted to be alone with him for a few minutes.  Will you wait for her—­outside—­at the door, and take her over to Cassidy’s wife?  Tell her that I will come to her in a little while.”

He followed MacDougall to the door, speaking to him in a low voice, and then turned to Gregson.  The artist had seated himself at one side of the small office table, and Philip sat down opposite him, holding out his hand to him again.

“What is the matter, Greggy?”

“This is not a time for long explanations,” said the artist, still holding back his hand.  “They can come later, Phil.  But to-night—­ now—­you must understand why I cannot shake hands with you.  We have been friends for a good many years.  In a few minutes we will be enemies—­or you will be mine.  One thing, before I go on, I must ask of you.  I demand it.  Whatever passes between us during the next ten minutes, say no word against Eileen Brokaw.  I will say what you might say—­that for a time her soul wandered, and was almost lost.  But it has come back to her, strong and pure.  I love her.  Some strange fate has ordained that she should love me, worthless as I am.  She is to be my wife.”

Philip’s hand was still across the table.

“Greggy—­Greggy—­God bless you!” he cried, softly.  “I know what it is to love, and to be loved.  Why should I be your enemy because Eileen Brokaw’s heart has turned to gold, and she has given it to you?  Greggy, shake!”

“Wait,” said Gregson, huskily.  “Phil, you are breaking my heart.  Listen.  You got my note?  But I did not desert you so abominably.  I made a discovery that last night of yours in Churchill.  I went to Eileen Brokaw, and to-morrow—­some time—­if you care I will tell you of all that happened.  First you must know this.  I have found the ‘power’ that is fighting you down below.  I have found the man who is behind the plot to ruin your company, the man who is responsible for Thorpe’s crimes, the man who is responsible—­for—­ that—­in—­there.”

He leaned across the table and pointed to the closed door.

“And that man—­”

For a moment he seemed to choke.

“Is Brokaw, the father of my affianced wife!”