Philip Steele of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police

he guard into the prison, relocked the door, left the key in the lock, and returned to Hodges' office to replace the old clothes for his uniform. Not until he sto

etail by detail, in his mind. He had, at least, followed Inspector MacGregor's injunction-he ha

he was guilty of actively assisting in the flight of two people who could not possibly escape the penalty of justice-if caught. But th

e in his possession, the strange orders which would mean dismissal for the inspector, and perhaps a greater punishment, if he divulged them. He would be safe in telling MacGregor something of what

a vision of her face came to him again, filled with the marvelous sweetness, the purity, and the love which had enthralled him beside the campfire. In these moments it was almost impossible for him to convince himself that she had forgotten her dignity as a wife even for an hour. Could he have been mistaken? Had he looked

d spent the night at Le Pas. Not until an hour later was it discovered that Hodges had been killed, the guard made a prisoner, and that Thorpe and his wife were gone. Philip at on

course south. It was three days later before he showed up at Le Pas, and learned that no one had seen or heard of Thorpe

ried. "You got them after th

him a crumpled

ions, sir," he replied quietly.

turned as white as the paper

bbing boy. It was a long time before he looked up, and during these minutes Philip, with his head bowed low to the other, told him of all tha

Gregor rais

ved her. She is the only girl-the only woman-I have ever loved. You understand? I am almost old enough to be her father. She was never intended for

nd a sob rose

you did yield

, that I made her a present of a little silver-bound autograph book, and on the first page of that book I wrote the

n said, as if to no one bu

at was bowed again upon the desk, and pl

her!" ech

is, because of a face and a soul that have filled my heart, because of a woman that is not mine, and never can be mine, because of a love which ever burns,

lip returned to his barracks room to write a letter, in care of his father, to the man and woman whom he had helped to escape

g a letter on Philip's table. "Looks

hen, on the back of it, he found written in ink, "Lac Bain." His fingers trembled as he tore open the envelope. Swiftly he read. His breath came in a gasping cry from between his lips, his face turned as white as the cr

s what

Philip

rible punishment, my dear Steele, for her-and for me. But I deserved it more than she. That very night-after Isobel left the table-she insisted that I explain. When

you understand. The joke was carried too far. When she met you-and Bucky Nome-it ceased to be a joke, and almost became a tragedy. For those few minutes before the fire Isobel used her disguise as a test. She came to me, before you joined us, and whispered to me that Nome was a scoundrel, and tha

omfort her. She lay in her bed crying all that night. I am telling you all this, because to me my daughter is one of the two most precious things on earth, the sweetest

ster

tiny cluster of violets that had been pressed and dried between the pages of a book, and when he