ince then we have lost three miles of road-bed,
destroyed by a washout. A terrific charge of dynamite had been used to
let down upon us the water of a lake which was situated at the top of a
ridge near our right of way. Whoever our enemies are, they seem to know
our most secret movements, and attack us whenever we leave a vulnerable
point open. The most surprising part of the whole affair is this: in
spite of my own efforts to keep our losses quiet the rumor has spread
for hundreds of miles around us, even reaching Churchill, that the
northerners have declared war against our enterprise and are determined
to drive us out. Two-thirds of my men believe this. MacDougall, my
engineer, believes it. Between my working forces and the Indians,
French, and half-breeds about us there has slowly developed a feeling
of suspicion and resentment. It is growing--every day, every hour. If
it continues it can result in but two things--ruin for ourselves,
triumph for those who are getting at us in this dastardly manner. If
something is not done very soon--within a month--perhaps less--the
country will run with the blood of vengeance from Churchill to the
Barrens. If what I expect to happen does happen there will be no
government road built to the Bay, the new buildings at Churchill will
turn gray with disuse, the treasures of the north will remain
undisturbed, the country itself will slip back a hundred years. The
forest people will be filled with hatred and suspicion so long as the
story of great wrong travels down from father to son. And this wrong,
this crime--"

Philip's face was white, cold, almost passionless in the grim hardness
that had settled in it. He unfolded a long typewritten letter, and
handed it to Gregson.

"That letter is the final word," he explained. "It will tell you what I
have not told you. In some way it was mixed in my mail and I did not
discover the error until I had opened it. It is from the headquarters
of our enemies, addressed to the man who is in charge of their plot up
here."

"He waited, scarce breathing, while Gregson bent over the typewritten
pages. He noted the slow tightening of the other's fingers as he turned
from the first sheet to the second; he watched Gregson's face, the slow
ebbing of color, the gray white that followed it, the stiffening of his
arms and shoulders as he finished. Then Gregson looked up.

"Good God!" he breathed.

For a full half-minute the two men gazed at each other acro