In spite of their absurdity the words affected Philip curiously.  Was it possible that Miss Brokaw had reached Fort Churchill in some other way than by ship?  And, if not, was it possible that in this remote corner of the earth there was another woman who resembled her so closely?  Philip took a step toward Gregson, half determined to awaken him.  And yet, on second thought, he knew that Gregson could not explain.  Even if the artist had learned of his affair with Miss Brokaw and had secured a picture of her in some way, he would not presume to go this far.  He was convinced that Gregson had drawn the picture of a face that he had seen that day.  Again he read the words at the bottom of the sketch, and once more he experienced their curious effect upon him—­an effect which it was impossible for him to analyze even in his own mind.

He replaced the picture upon the table and drew the handkerchief and bit of lace from his pocket.  In the light of the lamp he saw that both were as unusual as had been the picturesque dress of the girl and her companion.  Even to his inexperienced eyes and touch they gave evidence of a richness that puzzled him, of a fashion that he had never seen.  They were of exquisite workmanship.  The lace was of a delicate ivory color, faintly tinted with yellow.  The handkerchief was in the shape of a heart, and in one corner of it, so finely wrought that he could barely make out the silken letters, was the word “Camille.”

The scent of heliotrope rose more strongly in the closed room, and from the handkerchief Philip’s eyes turned to the face of Eileen Brokaw looking at him from out of Gregson’s sketch.  It was a curious coincidence.  He reached over and placed the picture face down.  Then he loaded his pipe, and sat smoking, his vision traveling beyond the table, beyond the closed door to the lonely black rock where he had come upon Jeanne and Pierre.  Clouds of smoke rose about him, and he half closed his eyes.  He saw the girl again, as she stood there; he saw the moonlight shining in her hair, the dark, startled beauty of her eyes as she turned upon him; he heard again the low sobbing note in her voice as she cried out her hatred against Churchill.  He forgot Eileen Brokaw now, forgot in these moments all that he and Gregson had talked of that day.  His schemes, his fears, his feverish eagerness to begin the fight against his enemies died away in thoughts of the beautiful girl who had come into his life this night.  It seemed to him now that he had known her for a long time, that she had been a part of him always, and that it was her spirit that he had been groping and searching for, and could never find.  For the space of those few moments on the cliff she had driven out the emptiness and the loneliness from his heart, and there filled him a wild desire to make her understand, to talk with her, to stand shoulder to shoulder with Pierre out there in the night, a comrade.

Suddenly his fingers closed tightly over the handkerchief.  He turned and looked steadily at Gregson.  His friend was sleeping, with his face to the wall.