He fell asleep, the resolution formed in his mind to investigate as soon as he found the opportunity.  There would surely be those at Churchill who would know these people; if not, they would know of Fort o’ God.

Philip found Gregson awake and dressed when he rolled out of his bunk a few hours later.  Gregson had breakfast ready.

“You’re a good one to have company,” growled the artist.  “When you go out mooning again please take me along, will you?  Chuck your head in that pail of water and let’s eat.  I’m starved.”

Philip noticed that his companion had tacked the sketch against one of the logs above the table.

“Pretty good for imagination, Greggy,” he said, nodding.  “Burke will jump at that if you do it in colors.”

“Burke won’t get it,” replied Gregson, soberly, seating himself at the table.  “It won’t be for sale.”

“Why?”

Gregson waited until Philip had seated himself before he answered.

“Look here, old man—­get ready to laugh.  Split your sides, if you want to.  But it’s God’s truth that the girl I saw yesterday is the only girl I’ve ever seen that I’d be willing to die for!”

“To be sure,” agreed Philip.  “I understand.”

Gregson stared at him in surprise.  “Why don’t you laugh?” he asked.

“It is not a laughing matter,” said Philip.  “I say that I understand.  And I do.”

Gregson looked from Philip’s face to the picture.

“Does it—­does it hit you that way, Phil?”

“She is very beautiful.”

“She is more than that,” declared Gregson, warmly.  “If I ever looked into an angel’s face it was yesterday, Phil.  For just a moment I met her eyes—­”

“And they were—­”

“Wonderful!”

“I mean—­the color,” said Philip, engaging himself with the food.

“They were blue or gray.  It is the first time I ever looked into a woman’s eyes without being sure of the color of them.  It was her hair, Phil—­not this tinsel sort of gold that makes you wonder if it’s real, but the kind you dream about.  You may think me a loon, but I’m going to find out who she is and where she is as soon as I have done with this breakfast.”

“And Lord Fitzhugh?”

A shadow passed over Gregson’s face.  For a few moments he ate in silence.  Then he said: 

“That’s what kept me awake after you had gone—­thinking of Lord Fitzhugh and this girl.  See here, Phil.  She isn’t one of the kind up here.  There was breeding and blood in every inch of her, and what I am wondering is if these two could be associated in any way.  I don’t want it to be so.  But—­it’s possible.  Beautiful young women like her don’t come, traveling up to this knob-end of the earth alone, do they?”

Philip did not pursue the subject.  A quarter of an hour later the two young men left the cabin, crossed the ridge, and walked together down into Churchill.  Gregson went to the Company’s store, while Philip entered the building occupied by Pearce.  Pearce was at his desk.  He looked up with tired, puffy eyes, and his fat hands lay limply before him.  Philip knew that he had not been to bed.  His oily face strove to put on an appearance of animation and business as Philip entered.