As he hurried back to his cabin he told himself that both
Jeanne and Pierre had read what he had sent to them in the
handkerchief; their response was a proof that they understood him,
and deep down a voice kept telling him that if it came to fighting
they three, Pierre, Jeanne, and himself, would rise or fall
together. A few hours had transformed him into Gregson's old
appreciation of the fighting man. Long and tedious months of
diplomacy, of political intrigue, of bribery and dishonest
financiering, in which he had played but the part of a helpless
machine, were gone. Now he held the whip-hand; Brokaw had
acknowledged his own surrender. He was to fight--a clean, fair
fight on his part, and his blood leaped in every vein like
marshaling armies. That nights on the rock, he would reveal
himself frankly to Pierre and Jeanne. He would tell them of the
plot to disrupt the company, and of the work ahead of him. And
after that--
He thrust open the door of his cabin, eager to enlist Gregson in
his enthusiasm. The artist was not in. Philip noticed that the
cartridge-belt and the revolver which usually hung over Gregson's
bunk were gone. He never entered the cabin without looking at the
sketch of Eileen Brokaw.
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