"
Five days passed without a sign of an enemy.
About eight o'clock on the night of the sixth MacDougall came into
the office, where Philip was alone. The young Scotchman's usually
florid face was white. He dropped a curse as he grasped the back
of a chair with both hands. It was the third or fourth time that
Philip had heard MacDougall swear.
"Damn that Thorpe!" he cried, in a low voice.
"What's up?" asked Philip, his muscles tightening.
MacDougall viciously beat the ash from the bowl of his pipe.
"I didn't want to worry you about Thorpe, so I've kept quiet about
some things," he growled. "Thorpe brought up a load of whisky with
him. I knew it was against the law you've set down for this camp,
but I figured you were having trouble enough without getting you
into a mix-up with him, so I didn't say anything. But this other--
is damnable! Twice he's had a woman sneak in to visit him. She's
there again to-night!"
A choking, gripping sensation rose in Philip's throat. MacDougall
was not looking, and did not see the convulsive twitching of the
other's face, or the terrible light that shot for an instant into
his eyes.
"A woman--Mac--"
"A YOUNG woman," said MacDougall, with emphasis.
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