e final word. It shows that your enemies have already
succeeded in working up the forest people against you, and have filled
them with suspicion. Their last blow is to be--"

He stopped, and Philip nodded at the horrified question in his eyes.

"Greggy, up here there is one law which reigns above all other law.
When I was in Prince Albert a year ago I was sitting on the veranda of
the little old Windsor Hotel. About me were a dozen wild men of the
north, who had come down for a day or two to the edge of civilization.
Most of those men had not been out of the forests for a year. Two of
them were from the Barrens, and this was their first glimpse of
civilized life in five years. As we sat there a woman came up the
street. She turned in at the hotel. About me there was a sudden
lowering of voices, a shuffling of feet. As she passed, every one of
those twelve rose from their seats and stood with bowed heads and their
caps in their hands until she had gone. I was the only one who remained
sitting! That, Greggy, is the one great law of life up here, the
worship of woman because she is woman. A man may steal, he may kill,
but he must not break this law. If he steals or kills, the mounted
police may bring the offender to justice; but if he breaks this other
law there is but one punishment, and that is the punishment of the
people. That is what this letter purposes to do--to break this law in
order that its penalty may fall upon us. And if they succeed, God help
us!"

It was Gregson who jumped to his feet now. He took half a dozen nervous
steps, paused, lighted a cigarette, and looked down into Philip's
upturned face.

"I understand now where the fight is coming in," he said. "If this
thing goes through, these people will rise and wipe you off the map.
They'll lay it to you and your men, of course. And I fancy it won't be
a job half done if they feel about it as I'd feel. But," he demanded,
sharply, "why don't you put the affair into the hands of the proper
authorities--the police or the government? You've got--By George, you
must have the name of the man to whom that letter was addressed!"

Philip handed him a soiled white envelope, of the kind in which
official documents are usually mailed.

"That's the man."

Gregson gave a low whistle.

"Lord--Fitzhugh--Lee!" he read, slowly, as though scarce believing his
eyes. "Great Scott! A British peer!"

The cynical smile on Philip's lips cut his words short.

"Perhaps," h