"And Lord Fitzhugh?"
A shadow passed over Gregson's face. For a few moments he ate in silence. Then he said:
"That's what kept me awake after you had gone—thinking of Lord Fitzhugh and this girl. See here, Phil. She isn't one of the kind up here. There was breeding and blood in every inch of her, and what I am wondering is if these two could be associated in any way. I don't want it to be so. But—it's possible. Beautiful young women like her don't come, traveling up to this knob-end of the earth alone, do they?"
Philip did not pursue the subject. A quarter of an hour later the two young men left the cabin, crossed the ridge, and walked together down into Churchill. Gregson went to the Company's store, while Philip entered the building occupied by Pearce. Pearce was at his desk. He looked up with tired, puffy eyes, and his fat hands lay limply before him. Philip knew that he had not been to bed. His oily face strove to put on an appearance of animation and business as Philip entered.
Philip produced a couple of cigars and took a chair opposite him.
"You look bushed, Pearce," he began. "Business must be rushing. I saw a light in your window after midnight, and I came within an ace of calling. Thought you wouldn't like to be interrupted, so I put off my business until this morning."
"Insomnia," said Pearce, huskily. "I can't sleep. Suppose you saw me at work through the window?" There was almost an eager haste in his question.
"Saw nothing but the light," replied Philip, carelessly. "You know this country pretty well, don't you, Pearce?"
"Been 'squatting' on prospects for eight years, waiting for this damned railroad," said Pearce, interlacing his thick fingers. "I guess I know it!"
"Then you can undoubtedly tell me the location of Fort o' God?"