There was
a curious look in the artist's face as he gazed questioningly at
his friend. His immaculate appearance was gone. He looked like one
who had passed through an uncomfortable hour or two. Perspiration
had dried in dirty streaks on his face, and his hands were buried
dejectedly in his trousers pockets. He rose to his feet and stood
before his companion.
"Look at me, Phil--take a good long look," he urged.
Philip stared.
"Am I awake?" demanded the artist. "Do I look like a man in his
right senses? Eh, tell me!"
He turned and pointed to the sketch hanging against the wall.
"Did I see that girl, or didn't I?" he went on, not waiting for
Philip to answer. "Did I dream of seeing her? Eh? By thunder,
Phil--" He whirled upon his companion, a glow of excitement taking
the place of the fatigue in his eyes. "I couldn't find her to-day.
I've hunted in every shack and brush heap in and around Churchill.
I've hunted until I'm so tired I can hardly stand up. And the
devil of it is, I can find no one else who got more than a glimpse
of her, and then they did not see her as I did. She had nothing on
her head when I saw her, but I remember now that something like a
heavy veil fell about her shoulders, and that she was lifting it
when she passed.
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