of forest. Then Philip led the way back
into the cabin.

Gregson followed. In the light of the big oil-lamp which hung suspended
from the ceiling he noticed something in Whittemore's face he had not
observed before, a tenseness about the muscles of his mouth, a
restlessness in his eyes, rigidity of jaw, an air of suppressed emotion
which puzzled him. He was keenly observant of details, and knew that
these things had been missing a short time before. The pleasure of
their meeting that afternoon, after a separation of nearly two years,
had dispelled for a time the trouble which he now saw revealing itself
in his companion's face and attitude, and the lightness of Whittemore's
manner in beginning his explanation for inducing him to come into the
north had helped to complete the mask. There occurred to him, for an
instant, a picture which he had once drawn of Whittemore as he had
known him in certain stirring times still fresh in the memory of
each--a picture of the old, cool, irresistible Whittemore, smiling in
the face of danger, laughing outright at perplexities, always ready to
fight with a good-natured word on his lips. He had drawn that picture
for Burke's, and had called it "The Fighter." Burke himself had
criticized it because of the smile. But Gregson knew his man. It was
Whittemore.

There was a change now. He had grown older, surprisingly older. There
were deeper lines about his eyes. His face was thinner. He saw, now,
that Philip's lightness had been but a passing flash of his old
buoyancy, that the old life and sparkle had gone from him. Two years,
he judged, had woven things into Philip's life which he could not
understand, and he wondered if this was why in all that time he had
received no word from his old college chum.

They had seated themselves at opposite sides of the table, and from an
inside pocket Philip produced a small bundle of papers. From these he
drew forth a map, which he smoothed out under his hands.

"Yes, there are possibilities--and more, Greggy," he said. "I didn't
ask you up here to help me fight air and moonshine. And I've promised
you a fight. Have you ever seen a rat in a trap with a blood-thirsty
terrier guarding the little door that is about to be opened? Thrilling
sport for the prisoner, isn't it? But when the rat happens to be
human--"

"I thought it was a fish," protested Gregson, mildly. "Pretty soon
you'll be having it a girl in a trap--or at the end of a fish-line--"