"Lucky I happened along just now, old man. You've got it, eh?"
Peter God shrank back from the other's outstretched hand.
"There's time," he cried, pointing to the door.
"Don't breathe this air. Get out. I'm not bad yet—but it's smallpox, Curtis!"
"I know it," said Philip, beginning to throw off his hood and coat. "I'm not afraid of it. I had a touch of it three years ago over on the Gray Buzzard, so I guess I'm immune. Besides, I've come two thousand miles to see you, Peter God—two thousand miles to bring you a letter from Josephine McCloud."
For ten seconds Peter God stood tense and motionless. Then he swayed forward.
"A letter—for Peter God—from Josephine McCloud?" he gasped, and held out his hands.
An hour later they sat facing each other—Peter God and Curtis. The beginning of the scourge betrayed itself in the red flush of Peter God's face, and the fever in his eyes. But he was calm. For many minutes he had spoken in a quiet, even voice, and Philip Curtis sat with scarcely a breath and a heart that at times had risen in his throat to choke him. In his hand Peter God held the pages of the letter he had read.
Now he went on:
"So I'm going to tell it all to you, Curtis—because I know that you are a man. Josephine has left nothing out. She has told me of your love, and of the reward she has promised you—if Peter God sends back a certain word. She says frankly that she does not love you, but that she honors you above all men—except her father, and one other. That other, Curtis, is myself. Years ago the woman you love—was my wife."