Part 15 (1/2)

”Nothing had happened,” he said, barely above a whisper. ”I found her, and I thank G.o.d for that I loved her, and my theory was doubly shattered, a thousand times cursed. She is my wife, and I am the happiest of men--except for these haunting memories. Before I married her I told her all, and together we have tried to make rest.i.tution for my crime, for I shall always deem it such. I found that the man who died was supporting a mother, and that the girl's parents lived on a little mortgaged farm in Michigan. We sent the mother ten thousand dollars, and the parents the same. We have built a little church in the village where they died. The third couple,” finished the doctor, dropping Philip's hand, ”came up here. When I got back from the south I found that several of my checks had been returned. I wrote letter after letter, but could find no trace of these last of my experimenters. I sent an agent into the North and he returned without news of them. They had never appeared at Fort Smith. And now--I have come up to hunt for them myself. Perhaps, in your future wanderings, you may be of some a.s.sistance to me. That is why I have told you this--with the hope that you will help me, if you can.”

With a flash of his old, quick coolness the doctor turned to one of Pierre Th.o.r.eau's bunks.

”Now,” he said, with a strained laugh, ”I'll follow your suggestion and go to bed. Goodnight.”

Chapter XIV. What Came Of The Great Love Experiment

For an hour after he had gone to bed Philip lay awake thinking of the doctor's story. He dreamed of it when he fell asleep. In a way for which he could not account, the story had a peculiar effect upon him, and developed in him a desire to know the end. He awoke in the morning anxious to resume the subject with McGill, but the doctor disappointed him. During the whole of the day he made no direct reference to his mission in the North, and when Philip once or twice brought him back to the matter he evaded any discussion of it, giving him to understand, without saying so, that the matter was a closed incident between them, only to be reopened when he was able to give some help in the search.

The doctor talked freely of his home, of the beauty and the goodness of his wife, and of a third member whom they expected in their little family circle in the spring. They discussed home topics--politics, clubs and sport. The doctor disliked society, though for professional reasons he was compelled to play a small part in it, and in this dislike the two men found themselves on common ground. They became more and more confidential in all ways but one. They pa.s.sed hours in playing cribbage with a worn pack of Pierre's cards, and the third night sang old college songs which both had nearly forgotten. It was on this evening that they planned to remain one more day in Pierre's cabin and then leave for Fort Smith.

”You have hope--there,” said Philip in a casual way, as they were undressing.

”Little hope, but the search will begin from there,” replied the doctor.

”I have more hope at Chippewayan, where we struck a clew. I sent back my Indian to follow it up.”

They went to bed. How long he had slept Philip had no idea, when he was awakened by a slight noise. In a sub-conscious sort of way, with his eyes still closed, he lay without moving and listened. The sound came again, like the soft, cautious tread of feet near him. Still without moving he opened his eyes. The oil lamp which he had put out on retiring was burning low. In its dim light stood the doctor, half dressed, in a tense att.i.tude of listening.

”What's the matter?” asked Philip.

The professor started, and turned toward the stove.

”Nervousness, I guess,” he said gloomily. ”I was afraid I would awaken you. I've been up three times during the last hour--listening for a voice.”

”A voice?”

”Yes, back there in the bunk I could have sworn that I heard it calling somewhere out in the night. But when I get up I can't hear it. I've stood at the door until I'm frozen.”

”It's the wind,” said Philip. ”It has troubled me many times out on the snow plains. I've heard it wail like children crying among the dunes, and again like women screaming, and men shouting. You'd better go to bed.”

”Listen!” The doctor stiffened, his white face turned to the door.

”Good Heavens, was that the wind?” he asked after a moment.

Philip had rolled from his bunk and was pulling on his clothes.

”Dress and we'll find out,” he advised.

Together they went to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. The sky was thick and heavy, with only a white blur where the moon was smothered. Fifty yards away the gray gloom became opaque. Over the thousand miles of drift to the north there came a faint whistling wind, rising at times in fitful sweeps of flinty snow, and at intervals dying away until it became only a lulling sound. In one of these intervals both men held their breath.

From somewhere out of the night, and yet from nowhere that they could point, there came a human voice.

”Pier-r-r-r-e Th.o.r.eau--Pier-r-r-r-e Th.o.r.eau--Ho, Pierre Th.o.r.eau-u-u-u!”

”Off there!” s.h.i.+vered the doctor.

”No--out there!” said Philip.

He raised his own voice in an answering shout, and in response there came again the cry for Pierre Th.o.r.eau.