Part 6 (1/2)

It had ceased to occur to him that there was peril in his strange position. If that were so, would his captors have left him in possession of his weapons, even imprisoned as he was? If they had intended him harm, would they have cus.h.i.+oned his box and placed a pillow under his head so that the cloth about his mouth would not cause him discomfort?

It struck him as peculiarly significant, now that he had suffered no injury in the short struggle on the trail, that no threats or intimidation had been offered after his capture. This was a part of the game which he was to play! He became more and more certain of it as the minutes pa.s.sed, and there occurred to him again and again the inspector's significant words, ”Whatever happens!” MacGregor had spoken the words with particular emphasis, had repeated them more than once.

Were they intended to give him a warning of this, to put him on his, guard, as well as at his ease?

And with these thoughts, many, conflicting and mystifying, he found it impossible to keep from a.s.sociating other thoughts of Bucky Nome, and of the woman whom he now frankly confessed to himself that he loved.

If conditions had been a little different, if the incidents had not occurred just as they had, he have suspected the hand of Bucky Nome in what was transpiring now. But he discarded that suspicion the instant that it came to him. That which remained with him more and more deeply as the minutes pa.s.sed was a mental picture of the two women--of this woman who was fighting to save her husband, and of the other, whom he loved, and for whom he had fought to save her for her husband. It was with a dull feeling of pain that he compared the love, the faith, and the honor of this woman whose husband had committed a crime with that one night's indiscretion of Mrs. Becker. It was in her eyes and face that he had seen a purity like that of an angel, and the pain seemed to stab him deeper when he thought that, after all, it was the criminal's wife who was proving herself, not Mrs. Becker.

He strove to unburden his mind for a time, and turned his head so that he could peer through the hole in the side of the box. The moon had risen, and now and then he caught flashes of the white snow in the opens, but more frequently only the black shadows of the forest through which they were pa.s.sing. They had not left Le Pas more than two hours behind when the sledge stopped again and Philip saw a few scattered lights a short distance away.

”Must be Wekusko,” he thought. ”h.e.l.lo, what's that?”

A voice came sharply from the opposite side of the box.

”Is that you, Fingy?” it demanded. ”What the devil have you got there?”

”Your maps and things, sir,” replied Fingy hoa.r.s.ely. ”Couldn't come up to-morrow, so thought we'd do it to-night.”

Philip heard the closing of a door, and footsteps crunched in the snow close to his ears.

”Love o' G.o.d!” came the voice again. ”What's this you've brought them up in, Fingy?”

”Coffin box, sir. Only thing the maps'd fit into, and it's been layin'

around useless since MacVee kem down in it Mebby you can find use for it, later,” he chuckled grewsomely. ”Ho-ho-ho! mebby you can!”

A moment later the box was lifted and Philip knew that he was being carried up a step and through a door, then with a suddenness that startled him he found himself standing upright. His prison had been set on end!

”Not that way, man,” objected Hodges, for Philip was now certain that he was in the presence of the chief of construction. ”Put it down--over there in the corner.”

”Not on your life,” retorted Fingy, cracking his finger bones fiercely.

”See here. Mister Hodges, I ain't a coward, but I b'lieve in bein'

to the dead, 'n' to a box that's held one. It says on that red card, 'Head--This end up,' an', s'elp me, it's going to be up, unless you put it down. I ain't goin' to be ha'nted by no ghosts! Ho, ho, ho--”

He approached close to the box. ”I'll take this red card off, Mister Hodges. It ain't nat'ral when there ain't nothing but maps 'n' things in it.”

If the cloth had not been about his mouth, it is possible that Philip would not have restrained audible expression of his astonishment at what happened an instant later. The card was torn off, and a ray of light shot into his eyes. Through a narrow slit not more than a quarter of an inch wide, and six inches long, he found himself staring out into the room. The Fingy was close behind him. And in the rear of these two, as if eager for their departure, was Hodges, chief of construction.

No sooner had the men gone than Hodges turned back to the table in the center of the office. It was not difficult for Philip to see that the man's face was flushed and that he was laboring under some excitement.

He sat down, fumbled over some papers, rose quickly to his feet, looked at his watch, and began pacing back and forth across the room.

”So she's coming,” he chuckled gleefully.

”She's coming, at last!” He looked at his watch again, straightened his cravat before a mirror, and rubbed his hands with a low laugh. ”The little beauty has surrendered,” he went on, his face turning for an instant toward the coffin box. ”And it's time--past time.”

A light knock sounded at the door, and the chief sprang to open it. A figure darted past him, and for but a breath a white, beautiful face was turned toward Philip and his prison--the face of the young woman whom he had seen but two hours before in Le Pas, the face that had pleaded with him that night, that had smiled upon him from the photograph, and that seemed to be masked now in a cold marble-like horror, as its glorious eyes, like pools of glowing fire, seemed searching him out through that narrow slit in the coffin box.

Hodges had advanced, with arms reaching out, and the woman turned with a low, sobbing breath breaking from her lips.

Another step and Hodges would have taken her in his arms, but she evaded him with a quick movement, and pointed to a chair at one side of the table.

”Sit down!” she cried softly. ”Sit down, and listen!”