This thought, so long
as he could think it without a doubt, filled his cup of hope to
overflowing. But the doubt persisted. It was like a spark that refused to
go out. Who was Peter God? What was Peter God, the half-wild fox-hunter,
to Josephine McCloud? Yes--he could be but that one thing! A brother. A
black sheep. A wanderer. A son who had disappeared--and was now found.
But if he was that, only that, why would they not tell him? The doubt
sputtered up again.
Philip did not go to bed. He was anxious for the day, and the evening
that was to follow. A woman had unsettled his world. His mica mountain
became an unimportant reality. Barrow's greatness no longer loomed up for
him. He walked until he was tired, and it was dawn when he went to his
hotel. He was like a boy living in the anticipation of a great
promise--restless, excited, even feverishly anxious all day. He made
inquiries about Colonel James McCloud at his hotel. No one knew him, or
had even heard of him. His name was not in the city directory or the
telephone directory. Philip made up his mind that Josephine and her
father were practically strangers in the city, and that they had come
from Canada--probably Montreal, for he remembered the stamp on the box of
cigars.
That night, when he saw Josephine again, he wanted to reach out his arms
to her. He wanted to make her understand how completely his wonderful
love possessed him, and how utterly lost he was without her.
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