And no one, not even the girl of the hyacinth letter, would have dreamed that the man who was officially listed as "Private Phil Steele, of the N.W.M.P.," was Philip Steele, millionaire and gentleman adventurer.
None appreciated the humor of this fact more than Steele himself, and he fell again into his wholesome laugh as he placed a fresh pine log on the fire, wondering what his aristocratic friends--and especially the girl of the hyacinth letter--would say if they could see him and his environment just at the present moment.

In a slow, chuckling survey he took in the heavy German socks which he had hung to dry close to the fire; his worn shoe-packs, shining in a thick coat of caribou grease, and his single suit of steaming underwear that he had washed after supper, and which hung suspended from the ceiling, looking for all the world, in the half dusk of the cabin, like a very thin and headless man.
In this gloom, indeed, but one thing shone out white and distinct--the skull on the little shelf above the fire.

As his eyes rested on it, Steele's lips tightened and his face grew dark.

With a sudden movement he reached up and took it in his hands, holding it for a moment so that the light from the fire flashed full upon it.

In the left side, on a line with the eyeless socket and above the ear, was a hole as large as a small egg.
"So I'm ordered up to join Nome, the man who did this, eh ?" he muttered, fingering the ragged edge.