Alone and with the deadening depression that had come with Jean's last words, Philip returned to his room.

He had made no effort to follow the half-breed who had shamed him to the quick beside the grave of his wife.

He felt no pleasure, no sense of exultation, that his suspicions of Croisset's feelings toward Josephine had been dispelled.

Since the hour MacTavish had died up in the madness of Arctic night, deep and hopeless gloom had not laid its hand more heavily upon him.
He bolted his door, drew the curtain to the window, and added a bit of wood to the few embers that still remained alive in the grate.

Then he sat down, with his face to the fire.