If something is not done very soon--
within a month--perhaps less--the country will run with the blood
of vengeance from Churchill to the Barrens. If what I expect to
happen does happen there will be no government road built to the
Bay, the new buildings at Churchill will turn gray with disuse,
the treasures of the north will remain undisturbed, the country
itself will slip back a hundred years. The forest people will be
filled with hatred and suspicion so long as the story of great
wrong travels down from father to son. And this wrong, this crime--"
Philip's face was white, cold, almost passionless in the grim
hardness that had settled in it. He unfolded a long typewritten
letter, and handed it to Gregson.
"That letter is the final word," he explained. "It will tell you
what I have not told you. In some way it was mixed in my mail and
I did not discover the error until I had opened it. It is from the
headquarters of our enemies, addressed to the man who is in charge
of their plot up here."
"He waited, scarce breathing, while Gregson bent over the
typewritten pages. He noted the slow tightening of the other's
fingers as he turned from the first sheet to the second; he
watched Gregson's face, the slow ebbing of color, the gray white
that followed it, the stiffening of his arms and shoulders as he
finished.
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