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Title: The Helpers

Author: Francis Lynde

Release Date: March 14, 2014 [EBook

#45133]

Language: English

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THE HELPERS ***



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THE HELPERS

BY FRANCIS LYNDE



BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND

COMPANYThe Riverside Press, Cambridge

1899



COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY FRANCIS LYNDE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED



TO THE MEN AND

WOMEN OF THE

GUILD

COMPASSIONATE,GREETING:

Forasmuch as it hath seemed

good in the eyes of many to write of

those things which make for the

disheartening of all humankind,these things are written in the hope

that the God-gift of loving-kindness,

shared alike by saint and sinner,

may in some poor measure be given



its due.

The Author.



THE HELPERS



CHAPTER I

The curtain had gone down on the firs

act of the opera, and Jeffard found his ha

and rose to go out. His place was th

fourth from the aisle, and after a

neffectual attempt to make a passagewa

for him without rising, the two youn

women and the elderly man stood up anfolded their opera chairs. Being driven t

hink pointedly of something else, Jeffar

neglected to acknowledge the courtesy

and the two young women balanced thaccount by discussing him after he ha

passed out of hearing.

"I think he might at least have sai



Thank you,'" protested the one in th

black-plumed picture-hat, preening hersel

after the manner of ruffled birds an

disturbed womankind. "I'm in love wityour mountains, and your climate, an

your end-of-the-century impetus, but

can't say that I particularly admire Denve

manners."

The clear-eyed young woman in th

modest toque laughed joyously.

"Go on, Myra dear; don't mind me. It'

so refreshing to hear an out-of-churc

opinion on one's self. I know our manner

are perfectly primitive, but what can yoexpect when every train from the Eas

brings us a new lot of people to civilize

When you are tempted to groan over ou

shortcomings it'll comfort you wonderfull



f you will just stop long enough t

remember that a good many of us are th

newest of new tenderfoots!"

"Tenderfoots! What an expression!"

"It's good English, though we did use t

say 'tenderfeet' before the 'Centur

Dictionary' set us right. And it calls th

urn, as poppa would say."

She of the far-reaching plumes bent he

eyebrows in severe deprecation.

"Connie, your slang is simply vicious

Will you be good enough to tell me wha

calls the turn' means?"

"Ask poppa."

Appealed to by the censorious one, th



elderly man stopped twiddling the bit o

gold quartz on his watch-guard lon

enough to explain. He did it with a littl

hesitancy, picking his way among thwords as one might handle broken glass

or the edged tools of an unfamiliar trade

He was a plain man, and he stood i

considerable awe of the picture-hat and itwearer. When he had finished, the toqu

made honorable amends.

"I beg your pardon, Myra. Really, didn't know it had anything to do wit

gambling. But to go back to our manners

'll give you the ponies and the phaeton if

don't convince you that the absent-mindegentleman on our left here is the tenderes

of tenderfoots—most probably fro

Philadelphia, too," she added, i



mischievous afterthought.

"You wouldn't dare!"

"You think not? Just wait and you'lsee. Oh, cousin mine, you've a lot to lear

about your kind, yet. If you stay out her

six months or a year, you will begin to

hink your philosophy hasn't been hal

dreamful enough."

"How absurd you are, Constance. If

didn't know you to be"—

"Wait a minute; let me start you of

right: good, and sensible, and modest, an

unassuming, and dutiful, and brimful ofads"—she checked the attributes off o

her fingers. "You see I have them all by

heart."



The little cloud of dust puffing fro

beneath the drop-curtain began to subside

and the thumping and rumbling on th

stage died away what time the musicianwere clambering back to their places i

he orchestra. Miss Van Vetter swept the

aisles and the standing-room with he

opera-glass.

"You will not have a chance to prove

t, Connie. He isn't coming back."

"Don't you believe it. I am quite sur

he is a gentleman who always gets th

worth of his money."

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, I don't know; intuition, I suppose

That's what they call it in a woman, thoug



think it would be called good judgmen

n a man."

Taking him at his worst, Miss Elliott'erse characterization of Henry Jeffar

was not altogether inaccurate, though, i

he present instance, he would not hav

gone back to the theatre if he had knowwhat else to do with himself. Indeed, h

was minded not to go back, but a turn i

he open air made him think better of it

and he strolled in as the curtain warising. Whereupon the elderly man and th

wo young women had to stand agai

while he edged past them to his chair.

This time he remembered, and sai

something about being sorry to troubl

hem. Miss Elliott's chair was next to his

and she smiled and nodded reassuringly



Jeffard was moody and disheartened, an

he nod and the smile went near to th

better part of him. He kept his seat durin

he next intermission, and ventured a civicommonplace about the opera. The youn

woman replied in kind, and the wheel thu

set in motion soon rolled away from th

beaten track of trivialities into a pateading straight to the fulfillment of Mis

Elliott's promise to her cousin.

"Then you haven't been long iDenver," she hazarded on the strength of

remark which betrayed his unfamiliarit

with Colorado.

"Only a few weeks."

"And you like it? Every one does, yo

know."



Jeffard tried to look decorousl

acquiescent and made a failure of it.

"I suppose I ought to be polite and sayes; but for once in a way, I'm going to b

sincere and say no."

"You surprise me! I thought everybody

and especially new-comers, liked Denver

enthusiastically at first, and rather mor

han less afterward."

"Perhaps I am the exception," h

suggested, willing to concede something

"I fancy it depends very much upon th

point of view. To be brutally frank abou

t, I came here—like some few hundred

of others, I presume—to make my fortune

and I think I would better have stayed a

home. I seem to have arrived a decade o



wo after the fact."

The young woman never swerved fro

her intention by a hair's-breadth."Yes?" she queried. "It's too true tha

hese are not the palmy days of th

Matchless' and the 'Little Pittsburg

notwithstanding Creede and Crippl

Creek. And yet it would seem that eve

now our Colorado is a fairer field fo

ambition and energy than"—

She paused, and Jeffard, with a

unanalyzed impression that it was bot

very singular and very pleasant to b

alking thus freely with a self-containe

young woman whose serenity wa

apparently undisturbed by any notions o

conventionality, said, "Than a city of th



fifth class in New England, let us say

Yes, I concede that, if you include

ambition; but when it comes to a plai

question of earning a living"—

"Oh, as to that," she rejoined, quit

willing to argue with him now that he

point was gained, "if it is merely question of getting enough to eat and drin

suppose that can be answered anywhere

Even the Utes managed to answer it her

before the Government began feedinhem."

He regarded her curiously, trying to

determine her social point of view by thmany little outward signs of prosperit

which tasteful simplicity, unhampered b

a lean purse, may exhibit.



"I wonder if you know anything at al

about it," he said, half musingly.

"About getting something to eat?" Heaugh was a ripple of pure joy that had th

onic of the altitudes in it. "I dare say

don't—not in any practical way; though

do go about among our poor people. Thas what makes me uncharitable. I can

help knowing why so many people have t

go hungry."

Jeffard winced as if the uncharity had

personal application.

"We were speaking of fortunes," he

corrected, calmly ignoring the fact that hi

own remark had brought up the question o

he struggle for existence. "I think my ow

case is a fair example of what comes o



chasing ambitious phantoms. I gave up

modest certainty at home to come here

and"—The musicians were taking thei

places again, and he stopped abruptly.

"And now?" The words uttere

hemselves, and she was sorry for the

when they were beyond recall.

His gesture was expressive of disgust

but there was no resentment in his reply.

"That was some time ago, as I hav

ntimated; and I am still here an

beginning to wish very heartily that I ha

never come. I presume you can infer th

rest."

The leader lifted his baton, and th

curtain rose on the third act of the opera



At the same moment the curtain o

unacquaintance, drawn aside a hand's

breadth by the young woman's curiosity

fell between these two who knew not smuch as each other's names, and wh

assumed—if either of them though

anything about it—that the wave of chanc

which had tossed them together woulpresently sweep them apart again.

After the opera the ebbing tide o

humanity did so separate them; but whehe man had melted into the crowd in th

foyer, the young woman had a curiou

ittle thrill of regret; a twinge of remors

born of the recollection that she had madhim open the book of his life to a strange

for the satisfying of a mere whim o

curiosity.



Miss Van Vetter was ominously silen

on the way home, but she made it a poin

of conscience to go to Constance's roo

before her cousin had gone to bed.

"Connie Elliott," she began, "yo

deserve to be shaken! How did you dar

o talk with that young man withouknowing the first syllable about him?"

Constance sat down on the edge of th

bed and laughed till the tears came.

"Oh, Myra dear," she gasped, "it'

worth any amount of disgrace to see yo

ruffle your feathers so beautifully. Don

you see that I talked to him just because

didn't know any of the syllables? And h

old me a lot of them."



"I should think he did. I suppose h

will call on you next."

Connie the unconventional becamMiss Elliott in the smallest appreciabl

apse of time. "Indeed, he will not. H

knows better than to do that, even if he is

en—"

But Miss Van Vetter was gone.



CHAPTER II

When Jeffard left the theatre he went t

his room; but not directly. He made

detour of a few squares which took hi

down Sixteenth Street to Larimer, and so

on around to his lodging, which was in th

neighborhood of the St. James hotel.

After the manner of those whose going

and comings have reached the accusativ

point, he took the trouble to assure himsel

hat the burning of a cigar in the open ai

was the excuse for the roundabout walk

but the real reason showed its head for

moment or two when he slackened hi

pace at one point in the circuit an



glanced furtively up at a row of carefull

shaded windows in the second story of

building on the opposite side of the street

The lower part of the building wa

dark and deserted; but in the alley ther

was a small hallway screened by a pair o

swing doors with glass eyes in them, anat the end of the hallway a carpeted stai

eading up to the lighted room above. I

was to keep from climbing this stair tha

Jeffard had gone to the theatre earlier ihe evening.

Opposite the alley he stopped an

made as if he would cross the street, buhe impulse seemed to expend itself in th

moment of hesitation, and he went o

again, slowly, as one to whom dubiety ha

ent its leaden-soled shoes. Reaching hi



room he lighted the gas and dropped into

chair, his hands deep-buried in hi

pockets, and a look of something lik

desperation in his eyes.

The suggestive outline of his Western

experience sketched between the acts o

he opera for the young woman with threassuring smile was made up of half

ruths, as such confidences are wont to be

t was true that he had come to Colorad

o seek his fortune, and that thus far thquest had been bootless. But it was als

rue that he had begun by persuadin

himself that he must first study hi

environment; and that the curriculuwhich he had chosen was comprehensive

exhaustive, and costly enough to speedil

absorb the few thousand dollars whic



were to have been his lure for success.

His walk in life hitherto had bee

decently irreproachable, hedged in oeither hand by such good habits as may b

formed by the attrition of a mora

community; but since these were more th

attributes of time and place than of thman, and were unconsciously left behin

n the leave-takings, a species of insanity

known only to those who have habituall

worn the harness of self-restraint, hacome upon him in the new environment. A

first it had been but a vagrant impulse, an

as such he had suffered it to put a bandag

on the eyes of reason. Later, when hwould fain have removed the bandage, h

found it tied in a hard knot.

For the hundredth time within a mont



he was once more tugging at the knot. To

give himself the benefit of an object

esson, he turned his pockets inside out

hrowing together a small heap of loossilver and crumpled bank-notes on th

able. After which he made a deliberat

accounting, smoothing the creases out o

he bills, and building an accurate littlpillar with the coins. The exact su

ascertained, he sat back and regarded th

money reflectively.

"Ninety-five dollars and forty-fiv

cents. That's what there is left out of th

nest-egg; and I've been here rather les

han four months. At that rate I'vaveraged, let me see"—he knitted hi

brows and made an approximat

calculation—"say, fifty dollars a day



Consequently, the mill will run out of gris

n less than two days, or it would if th

aw of averages held good—which i

doesn't, in this case. Taking the lasfortnight as a basis, I'm capitalized for jus

about one hour longer."

He looked at his watch and got upwearily. "It's Kismet," he mused. "I migh

as well take my hour now, and be don

with it." Whereupon he rolled the mone

nto a compact little bundle, turned off thgas, and felt his way down the dark stai

o the street.

At the corner he ran against a stalwaryoung fellow, gloved and overcoated, and

carrying a valise.

"Why, hello, Jeffard, old man," said th



raveler heartily, stopping to shake hands

"Doing time on the street at midnight, a

usual, aren't you? When do you ever catc

up on your sleep?"

Jeffard's laugh was perfunctory. "

don't have much to do but eat and sleep,

he replied. "Have you been somewhere?"

"Yes; just got down from the mine—

rain was late. Same old story with you,

suppose? Haven't found the barrel omoney rolling up hill yet?"

Jeffard shook his head.

"Jeff, you're an ass—that's what yoare; a humpbacked burro of the Saguache

at that! You come out here in the morning

of a bad year with a piece of sheepskin i



your grip, and the Lord knows what littl

pickings of civil engineering in your head

and camp down in Denver expecting you

ucky day to come along and slap you ihe face. Why don't you come up on th

range and take hold with your hands?"

"Perhaps I'll have to before I gehrough," Jeffard admitted; and then

"Don't abuse me to-night, Bartrow. I'v

about all I can carry."

The stalwart one put his free arm abou

his friend and swung him around to th

ight.

"And that isn't the worst of it," he wen

on, ignoring Jeffard's protest. "You've

been monkeying with the fire and gettin

your fingers burned; and, as a matter o



course, making ducks and drakes of you

ittle stake. Drop it all, Jeffard, and com

across to the St. James and smoke a ciga

with me."

"I can't to-night, Bartrow. I'm in a blu

funk, and I've got to walk it off."

"Blue nothing! You'll walk about two

blocks, more or less, and then you'll pul

up a chair and proceed to burn you

fingers some more. Oh, I know thsymptoms like a book."

Jeffard summoned his dignity, and

found some few shreds and patches of i

eft. "Bartrow, there is such a thing a

overdrawing one's account with a friend,

he returned stiffly. "I don't want to quarre

with you. Good-night."



Three minutes later the goggle-eye

swing doors opened and engulfed him. A

he top of the carpeted stair he met a hard

faced man who was doubling a thick sheaof bank-notes into portable shape. Th

outgoer nodded, and tapped the rol

significantly. "Go in and break 'em," h

rasped. "The bank's out o' luck to-nighand it's our rake-off. I win all I can stand.

Jeffard pushed through another swin

door and went to the faro-table. Countinhis money he dropped the odd chang

back into his pocket and handed the bill

o the banker.

"Ninety-five?" queried the man; an

when Jeffard nodded, he pushed th

requisite number of blue, red, and whit

counters across the table. Jeffard arrange



hem in a symmetrical row in front of him

and began to play with the singleness o

purpose which is the characteristic of tha

particular form of dementia.

It was the old story with the usua

variations. He lost, won, and then los

again until he could reckon his counters bunits. After which the tide turned onc

more, and the roar of its flood dinned i

his ears like the drumming of a tornado i

a forest. His capital grew by leaps anbounds, doubling, trebling, and finall

quadrupling the sum he had handed th

banker. Then his hands began to shake

and the man on his right paused in his owplay long enough to say, "Now's yer tim

o cash in, pardner. Yer nerve's a-

flickerin'."



The prudent advice fell upon deaf ears

Jeffard's soul was Berserk in the fierc

battle with chance, and he began placin

he counters upon certain of the inlaicards before him, stopping only when h

had staked his last dollar. Five minute

afterward he was standing on the sidewal

again, drawing in deep breaths of the keemorning air, and wondering if it were onl

he possession of the thing called mone

hat kept one's head from buzzin

ordinarily. In the midst of the unspoke

query the shuffling figure of a night tramp

sidled up to him, and he heard imperfectl

he stereotyped appeal."Hungry, you say? Perhaps I'll be that

myself, before long. Here you are."

The odd change jingled into th



outstretched palm of the vagrant, and fo

he first time in a fairly industrious lif

Jeffard knew what it felt like to be quit

without money.

"That is, I think I do, but I don't," h

mused, walking slowly in the direction o

his room. "It isn't breakfast-time yet; anby the same token, it isn't going to be for

good while. I believe I can sleep the cloc

around, now that I've reached the bottom."



CHAPTER III

When one has sown the wind, and th

whirlwind harvest is begun, it is easy t

magine that the first few strokes of th

sickle have gathered in all the bitternes

here is in the crop. Some such illusor

assumption lent itself to Jeffard's moo

when he assured himself that he hafinally reached the bottom; but the light o

a new day, and a habit of early risin

which was not to be broken at such shor

notice, brought a clearer perspective.

In lieu of breakfast he walked up on

street and down another, carefull

avoiding the vicinity of the St. James fo



fear Bartrow might offer him hospitality

and dodging the haunts of his few

acquaintances in the downtow

horoughfares for the same reason. Thidrove him to the residence district; an

out in Colfax Avenue he met the elderly

man whom he had taken to be the father o

he young woman with the kindly nod ansmile.

Seeing him in daylight, Jeffar

recognized a familiar figure of the MininExchange and the brokers' offices, an

hought it not unlikely that he migh

presently stumble upon the home of th

young woman. He found it a square or twfarther out, identifying it by a glimpse o

he young woman herself, who was on th

veranda, looping up the tendrils of



climbing rose.

At sight of her Jeffard forgot hi

penalties for the moment, and the earlmorning sunshine seemed to take on

kindlier glow. She was standing on th

arm of a clumsy veranda-chair, tryin

vainly to reach the higher branches of throse, and Jeffard remarked that she wa

small almost to girlishness. But th

suggestion of immaturity paused with he

stature. The rounded arms discovered bhe loose sleeves of her belted house

gown; the firm, full outline of her figure

he crowning glory of red-brown hair wit

he heart of the sunlight in it; the selfcontained poise on the arm of the grea

chair; these were all womanly, and th

glimpse stirred the waters of a neglecte



pool in Jeffard's past as he went on hi

aimless way along the avenue.

There was a closely written leaf in thbook of memory which he had sought t

ear out and destroy; but the sight of th

graceful figure poised on the arm of th

big chair opened the record at thforbidden page, and the imagine

personality of the sweet-faced youn

woman with the red-brown hair an

sympathetic eyes set itself antitheticallover against the self-seeking ambition o

he girl who had written her own epitap

n the book of his remembrance. He gav

place to the sharply defined contrast for ime, indulging it as one who plunges no

unwillingly into the past for the sake o

escaping the present, and banishing it onl



when his shortening shadow gave toke

hat the chance of a breakfast invitatio

was no longer to be apprehended.

But when he turned his face cityward i

was with a conscious avoidance of th

route which would lead him past the hous

with a climbing rose on one of its verandpillars. For what had a man to whom th

proletary's highway was already openin

up its cheerless vista to do with love, an

dalliance, and heaven-suggestive pictureof domestic beatitude?

Once more in Sixteenth Street, th

moneyless reality thrust itself upon hiwith renewed insistence, and he turned

corner abruptly to escape an acquaintanc

who was crossing the street. The shame o

t was too new to strike hands wit



dissimulation as yet, and companionshi

was least of all things to be desired. If h

could but win back to his room unaccoste

and lock himself in until the sharpness ohunger should have exorcised the devil o

humiliation, he might hope to be able t

face an accusing world with suc

equanimity as may be born of desperation

But fate willed otherwise. As he wa

passing a deep-set doorway giving on th

sidewalk, a friendly arm shot out anbarred the way. Jeffard looked up with a

unspoken malediction on his tongue. I

was Bartrow. In his haste to gain hi

odging the shamed one had forgotten thproximity of the St. James hotel.

"You're a chump!" declared the broad

shouldered young miner, backing Jeffard



against the wall and pinning him fast wit

one finger. "You're no man's man, and

you're not fit to live in a man's town. Wh

didn't you come around to breakfast thimorning, like decent people?"

"I'm not boarding at the St. Jame

now." Jeffard tried to say it naturally, buhe evasion was palpable enough.

"What of that? Couldn't you afford t

be sociable once in a way?"

Jeffard prevaricated, and since he wa

but a clumsy liar, contrived to fall into

snare of his own setting.

"I was up too early for you, I guess

When I came by, the clerk told me yo

weren't down yet."



Bartrow shook his head and appeare

o be much moved.

"What an abnormal liar that clerk musbe," he commented reflectively. "I asked

him five minutes ago if any one ha

nquired for me, and he said no."

Jeffard hung his head and would hav

ried to break away; but Bartrow locke

arms with him and dragged him whither h

would.

"I'll forgive you this time," he went on

aughing at Jeffard's discomfiture. "

suppose you had your reasons for dodging

and while it's ten to one they were n

good, that leaves one chance in you

favor. Have a smoke?"



Now Jeffard's poverty-pride was fire

new as yet, and though the smell o

Bartrow's cigar made him faint wit

desire, he refused the gift.

"Haven't quit, have you?" Bartrow

demanded.

"No—yes; that is, I have for th

present. I'm not feeling very well thi

morning."

"You look it; every inch of it. Let's go

around and see what the money people ar

doing. Maybe that'll chirk you up a bit."

Jeffard yielded, partly becausBartrow's impetus was always of th

rresistible sort, and partly because h

could think of no plausible objection o



he spur of the moment. Bartrow talke

cheerily all the way around to the Minin

Exchange, telling of his claims an

prospects in Chaffee County, and warmino his subject as only a seasone

Coloradoan can when the talk is o

"mineral" and mining. Jeffard, bein

hungry, and sick with a fierce longing foobacco, said little, and was duly thankfu

hat Bartrow required no more than

word now and then to keep him going

one the less he watched narrowly for

chance to escape, and was visibl

depressed when none offered.

In the crowded Exchange the povertypride began to lose the fine keenness of it

edge. The atmosphere of the room wa

pungent with cigar smoke, and the tobacc



craving rose up in its might and smot

down Jeffard's self-respect.

"If you'll excuse me a minute, Dick, believe I'll go out and get a cigar as

measure of self-defense," he said; an

Bartrow supplied his need, as a matter o

course. It was a shameful subterfuge, anhe loathed himself for having descende

o it. Nevertheless, he took the ciga

which Bartrow made haste to offer, and

ighted it. The first few whiffs made hidizzy, but afterward he was bette

company for the enthusiast.

While they were talking, the elderlman with the bit of quartz on his watch

chain came in, and Jeffard inquired i

Bartrow knew him.



"Know Steve Elliott? I should say I do

Everybody knows him, barring now an

hen a tenderfoot like yourself. Beside

being one of the most lovable old infanton top of earth, he's one of Denver'

picturesques. That old man has had mor

ups and downs than any three men i

Colorado; and that's saying a good deal."

"In what way?"

"Oh, every way. He's a Fifty-niner, tobegin with; came across the plains in

bull-train to hunt for mineral. He found i

—Steve would find it if anybody could—

but some sharp rascal euchred him out ot, and he's been finding it and losing it a

regular intervals ever since."

Jeffard blew a cloud of smoke towar



he ceiling, and took in the outwar

presentment of the pioneer in a

appraisive eye-sweep. "This is one of th

finding intervals, I take it."

"Sure. He's on top just now,—rathe

more so than usual, I believe,—but th

pioneer's luck' will catch him again somday, and just as likely as not he'll b

hustling around for a grub-stake."

"Man of family?" queried Jeffard.

"Yes, if a daughter's a family. His wife

died in one of the lean years a long tim

ago. But say, Jeffard, you ought to know

he daughter. She's as pretty as a peach

and as bright as a new nickel. She's ha

her share of the ups and downs, an

hey've made a queer little medley of her



Trap and tandem and a big house o

Capitol Hill one month, and as like as no

wo rooms in a block and a ride in th

street-cars the next. That's about the waConnie Elliott's had it all her life, and it'

made her as wide awake as a frost

morning, and as good as a Sister o

Charity."

"I can believe all that," Jeffar

admitted, meaning more than he said.

"Yes, you're safe in believing all the

good things you hear about Steve Ellio

and his daughter. They're good people. B

he way, why can't you come up to thhouse with me some evening and ge

acquainted? They've a Philadelphia cousi

staying with them now, and you migh

compare notes on the 'wild and woolly



with her."

Jeffard had a string of excuses ready

ending with, "Besides, there are particulareasons why I don't wish to meet Mis

Elliott just now—reasons that I can

explain."

"Reasons be hanged! Just you stan

still a minute while I go get the old ma

and introduce you. You'll like him a whol

ot."

Bartrow did his part, but by the time h

had pulled Elliott out of the throng in fron

of the quotation board, Jeffard was tw

squares away, headed once more for th

suburbs. This time he crossed the rive

and tramped for hours in the Highlands

He told himself he was killing time an



keeping out of the way of the luncheo

hour; but in reality he was fighting

desperate battle with pride, or self

respect, or whatever it is that makes a mawho is not a born vagrant shrink from tha

species of cannibalism which begins wit

he eating of one's personal possessions.

It was an unequal fight at best, sinc

hunger was the besieger, but Jeffard mad

shift to prolong it until the long day o

fasting was drawing to its close. Hyielded at last, as needs must when famin

drives, but the capitulation was upo

conditions, and his heart was soft wit

repentant kneadings. Since one must eat tive, the pride-quenching thing must com

o pass; but the doing of it should be th

pivot upon which he would turn back t



sanity and industrious thrift. The loss o

his small patrimony and the hard-earne

savings by which it had been fairl

doubled was shrewd upon him, but he tolhimself that the consequences of his foll

must be set over against the experience

hat he must be content to begin again a

he bottom, as his father had before himhankful for the youth and strength whic

made such a beginning possible.

From the preliminary survey openitence to plotting out the map of goo

ntentions is an easy stage, and Jeffar

beguiled the long tramp townward b

building air-castles spacious and manystoried, with the new resolutions for thei

foundations. But when the sidewalks o

he streets were once more under his feet



he pride-quenching necessity urged itsel

afresh, plying the lash of shame until h

was driven to tramp yet other square

before he could attain to the plunginpoint.

He was passing the Albany when th

climax was reached, and he turned asido get a light for the carefully economize

stump of Bartrow's cigar before setting ou

o find a pawnshop where his pride migh

suffer least. At the cigar counter in throtunda a giant in rough tweeds, with a

unshorn beard and the fine bronze of th

grazing plains on face and hands, wa

filling his case with high-priced Cubanfrom an open box. At sight of Jeffard h

dropped the cigar-case and roared out

mighty welcome.



"Well, I'll be ——! Jeffard, my boy

where under the canopy did you dro

from? If I haven't had a search-warrant ou

for you all day, I'm a liar and the truth hashook me. Been to dinner?—but of cours

you haven't; or if you have, you are goin

o eat another with me right now. How'v

you been? and where in Tophet have youbeen hiding out?"

Jeffard smiled. "That's the place—i

Tophet and elsewhere; but I haven't beenout of town since you were here last."

"The devil you haven't! Then what di

hat muley maverick at the hotel meawhen he said you were gone?"

"Gone from the hotel, I guess he mean

've been 'eating around,' as we used t



say back in the Berkshire Hills."

"Have, eh? Well, you're going to 'ea

around' with me to-night, savez? I was jusgoing to swear a few lines and go up an

eat by myself. Come on; let's get a move

've got a train-load of steers on the iron

and I'm due to chase 'em at eight-thirtyBut before I forget it, here"—the big ma

found a compact little wad of bank-note

n his vest pocket and thrust it int

Jeffard's hand. "I counted that out the nexmorning and meant to give it back to you

but the thing got away from me slick an

clean."

"Give it back to me?" queried Jeffard

with a sudden swelling of the throat tha

made his voice husky and tremulous

"what is it?"



"Why, it's the hundred I borrowed o

you the last time we took in the menageri

ogether. What's the matter with you

Don't tell me you don't remember it, or shall go kick myself around the block fo

an over-honest idiot!"

Jeffard did not remember it; could budimly recall the circumstances now that h

was reminded of them. The lending ha

been in a moment of supreme excitemen

n the midst of a feverish attack of thdementia; the loan was in celluloi

counters, in fact, and not in legal tender a

all. And having been made, it was swiftl

ost sight of in the varying fortunes of thsitting. None the less, the return of it at th

precise moment when it was most neede

drove the thankfulness to his eyes, and th



ights of the great rotunda swam in a mist

haze when he thought of the humiliatin

hing from which the small Providenc

had saved him.

"Pettigrew," he said, when he could

rust himself to speak, "you're an hones

man, and that's the worst that can be saiof you. I had forgotten it long ago. Take

me in and fill me up. I've been trampin

all day, and it runs in my mind that I'v

skipped a meal or two."



CHAPTER IV

The dancing party at the Calmaines

was a crush, as Mrs. Calmaine's socia

enlargements were wont to be. For a

hour or more the avenue had been a

rumble with carriages coming and going

and a trickling stream of bidden one

flowed steadily inward under the electricighted awning, which extended th

welcome of the hospitable house to th

very curb.

Thanks to Myra Van Vetter, whose

iring was always of the most leisurely

he Elliotts were fashionably late; and th

elderly man, with the hesitant ai



accentuated by the unwonted dress-coa

had much ado to win through the throng i

he drawing-rooms with his charges. Hi

greeting to the hostess was sincere rathehan well-turned in its phrasing; but Mrs

Calmaine was sweetly gracious.

"So glad to see you, Stephen," shprotested; "the old friends can never b

spared, you know." She shook hands wit

unaffected cordiality, and her tactful us

of the elderly man's Christian name wenfar toward effacing the afflictive dress

coat. "Miss Van Vetter, you are quite

radiant to-night. You spoil all one's ideals

of Quaker demureness."

"Oh, Myra's demure enough, only yo

have to be her country cousin to find i

out," put in Connie maliciously; and whe



her father and Miss Van Vetter had made

room for later comers, she waited fo

another word with the hostess.

"Just a hint, before I'm submerged," sh

began, when her opportunity came. "I'

unattached, and particularly good-nature

and docile to-night. Make use of me jusas you would of Delia or Bessie. You've

everybody here, as usual, and if I can help

you amuse people"—

"Thank you, Connie, dear; that is ver

sweet of you. There are people here to

night who seem not to belong to any one

Here comes one of them now."

Constance looked and saw a youn

man making his way toward them;

soldierly figure, with square shoulder



and the easy bearing of one who has live

much in the open; but with a face whic

was rather thoughtful than strong, thoug

ts lines were well masked under a closerimmed beard and virile mustaches. Sh

recognized her unintroduced acquaintanc

of the theatre; and a minute or tw

afterward, when Mrs. Calmaine woulhave presented the new-comer, Mis

Elliott had disappeared.

"Let's sit down here, Teddy; this is agood a place as any. You poor boy! i

bores you dreadfully, doesn't it? How

rying it must be to be blasé at—shall

say twenty? or is it twenty-one?"

The dancing was two hours old, an

Connie and the smooth-faced boy wh

stood for the hopes of the house o



Calmaine were sitting out the intermissio

on a broad step of the main stair.

"Oh, I'm young, but I'll outgrow that,rejoined the youth tolerantly. "All th

same, you needn't bully me because you'v

a month or two the advantage. Shall I g

and get you something to eat, or drink?"

"No, thank you, Teddy; I'm neithe

hungry nor thirsty. But you might give m

he recipe for being good-natured whepeople make game of you."

"Yes; I think I see myself giving you

points on that," said the boy, with fran

admiration in his eyes. "I'm not running a

angel-school just at present."

Connie's blush was reproachful. "You



ridiculous boy!" she retorted. "You'll be

making love to me next, just the same as i

we hadn't known each other all our lives

Do you talk that way to other girls? or aryou only practicing on me so that yo

can?"

Teddy Calmaine shook his head"There isn't anybody else," he asserted

with mock earnestness. "My celestia

acquaintance is too limited. When th

goddess goes, there are no half-goddesseo take her place."

Connie sniffed sympathetically, and

hen laughed at him. "You ought to haveseen me yesterday, when poppa brough

old Jack Hawley home with him. Popp

and Jack were partners in the 'Vesta,' and

Mr. Hawley hadn't seen me since I was in



pinafores. He called me 'little girl,' an

wanted to know if I went to school, an

how I was getting along!"

Young Calmaine made a dumb show o

applause. "O umbræ Pygmæorum! Wh

wasn't I there to see! But you mustn't b

oo hard on old Jack. Half the people herwho don't know you think you're a

escaped schoolgirl; I've heard 'em. That'

why I took pity on you and"—

"Teddy Calmaine, go away and find m

somebody to talk to; a grown man, if yo

please. You make me tired."

The boy got up with a quizzical grin o

his smooth face. "I'll do it," he assente

affably; "I'm no end good-natured, as yo

remarked a few minutes ago."



When he was gone Connie forgot him

and fell into a muse, with the sights an

sounds of the crush for its motive. Fro

her perch on the stair she could look dowon the shifting scene in the wide entranc

hall, and through the archway beyond sh

had a glimpse of the circling figures in th

ball-room swaying rhythmically to thmusic. It was all very delightful an

oyous, and she enjoyed it with a zes

which was yet undulled by satiety. Non

he less, the lavishness of it oppresse

her, and a vague protest, born of othe

sights and scenes sharply contrasted bu

no less familiar to the daughter of StepheElliott, began to shape itself in her heart

How much suffering a bare tithe of th

wealth blazing here in jewels on fai

hands and arms and necks woul



alleviate. And how many hungry mouth

might be filled from the groaning tables i

he supper-room.

Miss Elliott came out of her reveri

reluctantly at the bidding of her lat

companion. Teddy Calmaine had obeye

her literally; and when she turned he wapresenting the soldierly young man wit

he pointed beard and curling mustaches.

"Miss Elliott, this is Mr. Jeffard. Yousaid you wanted a"—

"An ice, Teddy," she cut in, with a loo

which was meant to be obliterative. "Bu

you needn't mind it now. Will you have

half a stair-step, Mr. Jeffard?"

She made room for him, but he wa



mindful of his obligations.

"Not if you will give me this waltz."

She glanced at her card and looked upat him with a smile which was hal

pleading and half quizzical. "Must I?"

He laughed and sat down beside her"There is no 'must' about it. I was hopin

you would refuse."

"Oh, thank you."

"For your sake rather than my own," h

hastened to add. "I am a wretche

dancer."

"What a damaging admission!"

"Is it? Do you know, I had hoped yo



wouldn't take that view of it."

"I don't," she admitted, quite frankly

"We take it seriously, as we do most oour amusements, but it's a relic o

barbarism. Once, when I was a very littl

girl, my father took me to see a Ute scalp

dance,—without the scalps, of course,—and—well, first impressions are apt to b

asting. I never see a ball-room in actio

without thinking of Fire-in-the-Snow an

his capering braves."

Jeffard smiled at the conceit, but h

spoke to the truism.

"I hope your first impressions of m

won't be lasting," he ventured. "I think

was more than usually churlish last night."



She glanced up quickly. "There should

be no 'last night' for us," she averred.

"Forgive me; you are quite right. Buno matter what happens there always wil

be."

Her gaze lost itself among the circlin

figures beyond the archway, and the trut

of the assertion drove itself home with

winge of something like regret. But whe

she turned to him again there waunashamed frankness in the clear gra

eyes.

"What poor minions the convention

have made us," she said. "Let us b

primitive and admit that our acquaintanc

began last night. Does that help you?"



"It will help me very much, if you wil

et me try to efface the first impression."

"Does it need effacing?""I think it must. I was moody and hal

desperate."

He stopped, and she knew that he wawaiting for some sign of encouragemen

She looked away again, meaning not t

give it. It is one of the little martyrdoms o

sympathetic souls to invite confidence

and thereby to suffer vicariously for th

misdoings of the erring majority, and he

burdens in this wise were many an

heavy. Why should she go out of her wa

o add to them those of this man who ough

o be abundantly able to carry his own

Thus the unspoken question, and th



answer came close upon the heels of it

But for her own curiosity,—impertinence

she had begun to call it,—the occasio

would never have arisen.

"I am listening," she said, giving hi

his sign.

Being permitted to speak freely

Jeffard found himself suddenly tongue

ied. "I don't know what I ought to say,—

f, indeed, I ought to say anything at all,he began. "I think I gave you to understan

hat the world had been using me rathe

hardly."

"And if you did?"

A palpitant couple, free of the waltz

came up the stair, and Jeffard rose to mak



way. When the breathless ones perched

hemselves on the landing above, he wen

on, standing on the step below her an

eaning against the baluster.

"If I did, it was an implied untruth. It'

a trite saying that the world is what w

make it, and I am quite sure now that have been making my part of it since

came to Denver. I'm not going to afflic

you with the formula, but I shall feel bette

for having told you that I have torn it upand thrown it away."

"And you will write out another?"

"Beginning with to-morrow. I leav

Denver in the morning."

"You are not going back?" She said i



with a little tang of deprecation in th

words.

His heart warmed to the small flash ofriendly interest, and he smiled and shoo

his head. "No, that would never do—

without the fortune, you know. I'm going to

he mountains; with pick and shovel, ineed be. I should have started to-night if

hadn't found Mrs. Calmaine's invitation

She has been very good to me in a socia

way, and I could do no less than come.He said it apologetically, as if the dip into

he social pool on the eve of the new

setting forth demanded an explanation.

She smiled up at him. "Does it need a

apology? Are you sorry you came?"

"Sorry? It's the one wise thing I'v



done these four months. I shall always b

glad—and thankful." It was on his tongu

o say more; to dig the pit of confessio

still deeper, as one who, finding himself ahe shrine of compassionate purity, would

be assoilzied for all the wrong-doings an

follies and stumblings of a misguided pas

o say many things for which he had nshadow of warrant, and to which the self

contained young woman on the step befor

him could make no possible rejoinder; bu

he upcoming of the man whose nam

stood next on Connie's card saved him. A

moment later he was taking his leave.

"Not going to break away now, aryou, Jeffard?" said the fortunate one

helping Connie to rise.

"Yes; I must cut it short. I leave town



n the morning. Miss Elliott, will you bi

me Godspeed?"

She put her hand in his and said whawas meet; and to the man who stoo

beside her the parting appeared to b

neither more nor less than conventionall

formal. But when Jeffard was free of thhouse and swinging along on his wa

cityward, the spirit of it made itself

name to live; and out of the God-spee

and the kindly phrase of leavetaking thnew-blown fire of good intention distille

a subtle liqueur of jubilance which sang i

his veins like the true wine o

rejuvenescence; so nearly may thalchemy of pure womanhood transmut

sounding brass, or still baser metal, int

he semblance of virgin gold.



So Jeffard went his way reflective, an

while he mused the fire burned and he saw

himself in his recent stumblings in th

valley of dry bones as a thing apart. Frohe saner point of view it seeme

ncredible that he could ever have bee

he thrall of such an ignoble passion a

hat which had so lately despoiled him ansent him to tramp the streets like a hungr

vagrant. As yet the lesson was but a few

hours old, but the barrier it had thrown up

between the insensate yesterday and th

rational to-day seemed safely impassable

n the strength of reinstated reason

confidence returned; and close upon thheels of confidence, temerity. His reveri

had led him past the corner where h

should have turned westward, and whe

he took cognizance of his surroundings h



was standing opposite the alley-way of th

glass-eyed doors. He glanced at hi

watch. It was midnight. Twenty-four hour

before, almost to the minute, he had beedragged irresistibly across the street an

up the carpeted stair to the lair of th

dementia-demon.

He looked up at the carefully shade

windows, and a sudden desire to prov

himself came upon him. Not once since th

first hot flashes of the fever had begun tquicken his pulse, had he been able to g

and look on and return scathless. But wa

he not sane now? and was not the barrie

well builded? If it were not—if it stooonly upon the lack of opportunity—

He crossed the street and threaded th

narrow alley, tramping steadily as on



who goes into battle,—a battle which ma

be postponed, but which may by no mean

be evaded. The swing doors gave bac

under his hand, and a minute later he stoobeside the table with the inlaid cards in it

centre, his hands thrust deep in hi

pockets, and his breath coming in shar

ittle gasps.

It was a perilous moment for any son o

Adam who has been once bitten by the do

of avarice gone mad. The run of luck waagainst the bank, and the piles of counter

under the hands of the haggard one

girdling the table grew and multiplie

with every turn of the cards. Jeffard's lipbegan to twitch, and the pupils of his eye

narrowed to two scintillant points

Slowly, and by almost imperceptibl



advances, his right hand crept from it

covert, the fingers tightly clenched upo

he small roll of bank-notes,—th

Providential windfall which musprovision any future argosy of endeavor.

The dealer ran the cards wit

monotonous precision, his hands movinike the pieces of a nicely adjuste

mechanism. Jeffard's fingers unclosed an

he stood staring down at the money in hi

palm as if the sight of it fascinated himThen he turned quickly and tossed i

across to the banker. "Reds and whites,

he said; and the sound of his own voic

arred upon his nerves like the rasping ofiles in a saw-pit.

Two hours later, he was again standing

on the narrow footway in the alley, wit



he swing doors winging to rest behin

him. Two hours of frenzied excitement in

he dubious battle with chance, and th

day of penitence and its hopeful promisfor the future were as if they had not been

Halfway across the street he turned an

flung his clenched fist up at the shade

windows, but his tongue clave to his teetand the curse turned to a groan with a so

at the end of it. And as he went his way

sodden with weariness, the words of

ong-forgotten allegory were ringin

knell-like in his ears:—

"When the unclean spirit is gone out o

a man, he walketh in dry places seekinrest, and findeth none. Then he saith, I wil

return into my house from whence I cam

out; and when he is come, he findeth i



empty and swept and garnished. The

goeth he and taketh with him seven othe

spirits more wicked than himself, and the

enter in and dwell there; and the last statof that man is worse than the first."



CHAPTER V

It was on the day following the dancin

party at the Calmaines' that Constanc

Elliott arrayed herself in a modest stree

dress, and ran down to the library wher

Miss Van Vetter was writing letters.

"You'd better change your mind, Myra

and come along with me. It'll do you goo

o see how the other half lives," she sai

coaxingly.

Miss Van Vetter calmly finished hersentence before she replied.

"Thank you, Connie; but I believe not.

know it is the proper fad nowadays to g



slumming, but I can't do it; it's a matter o

principle with me."

Connie's eyebrows arched in milsurprise. "That's a new one," sh

commented. "I've heard all kinds o

excuses, but never that. How do yo

diagram it?"

"It is simple enough. One sees plenty o

misery in the ordinary course of thing

without making a specialty of looking fot; and when you've done everything tha

your money and sympathy can do, it i

only a single drop in the great ocean o

human wretchedness, after all. More thahat, you have added to the sum total of th

world's suffering by just so much as th

miseries of the others hurt you throug

your compassion."



"Myra, dear, if I didn't know that you

are better than your theories, I should tr

o humble you. What will you do if th

evil day ever comes to you?"

"Unload my woes upon some suc

angelic and charitable sister of mercy a

you are, I suppose," rejoined Miss VanVetter complacently. "But that doesn'

make it necessary for me to go about an

shed literal tears with those who weep

now. I prefer to do it by proxy." She tooka gold piece from her purse and offered i

o Constance. "Take this, and make some

poor wretch comfortable for ten or fiftee

minutes on my account."

Miss Elliott was not yet canonized, an

she refused the contribution with a

ndignant little stamp of her foot. "Myr



Van Vetter, you're worse than a heathen! I

wouldn't touch your money with the tip o

my finger; I'd be afraid it would burn me.

hope you'll learn for yourself some dawhat the cold shoulder of charity is—

here!" And she swept out of the roo

with as much dignity as five-feet-one-and

a-half may compass upon extraordinaroccasions.

Once on the other side of the librar

door, she laughed softly to herself andwas instantly Connie the serene again.

"It does me a whole lot of good to boi

over once in a while," she said, going ouon the veranda. "Myra serves on

beneficent end in the cosmogony in spit

of herself: she's a perfect safety-valve fo

me. Tommie-e-e-e! O Tom! Are you ou



here?"

A ragged boy, sitting on the curb and

shaking dice with a pair of pebblessprang up and ran to the gate. When th

atch baffled him, as it usually did fro

he outside, he vaulted the fence and stoo

before her.

"Prompt as usual, aren't you, Tommie?

"Ain't got nothin' else to do but to b

promp'. Is it a baskit, dis time, 'r wot?"

"It's a basket, and you'll find it in th

kitchen."

Five minutes later the dwellers in th

avenue might have seen a smal

procession headed townwards. It

component parts were a dainty little lady



walking very straight with her hands in th

pockets of her jacket, and a ragged urchi

bent sidewise against the weight of

capacious basket.

The street-car line was convenient, bu

Constance walked in deference t

Tommie's convictions,—he objected tohe car on the score of economy. "Wot's

he use o' givin' a bloated corp'ration

nickel w'en a feller can mog along on hi

feets?" he had demanded, one day; anhereafter they walked.

What profits it to set down in measure

phrase at what numbers in what streets thbasket cover was lifted that afternoon

Doubtless, in that great day when th

books shall be opened, it will be foun

hat a faithful record has been kept, no



only of the tumbler of jelly left wit

bedridden Mother M'Garrihan, the bottl

of wine put into the hands of gaunt Tom

Devins, who was slowly dying of leadpoisoning, and the more substantial viand

spread out before the hungry children i

drunken Owen David's shanty, but of al

he other deeds of mercy that left a trail ohankful benisons in the wake of the smal

procession. Be it sufficient to say that th

round was a long one, and that Constanc

spared neither herself nor her father'

bank-account where she found misery wit

uplifted hands.

The basket had grown appreciablighter, and Tommie's body was once

more approaching the perpendicular

when the procession paused before a



unswept stairway leading to the secon

story of a building fronting on one of th

ower cross streets. Constance held ou

her hand for the basket, but the boy put ibehind him.

"Wot's the matter with me?" he

demanded.

"Nothing at all, Tommie. I only mean

o save you a climb. The basket isn't heav

now, you know."

"S'posin' it ain't; ain't I hired to run thi

end o' the show? You jes' tell me where

you want it put, an' that's right where I'

goin' to put it, an' not nowheres else."

She smiled and let him lead the way up

he dusty stair. At a certain door near the



end of the long upper corridor she signe

o him to give her the basket. "Go to th

head of the stairs and wait," sh

whispered. "I may want you."

When he was out of hearing she tappe

on the door and went in. It was the interio

of all others that made Constance want tcry. There was a sufficiency of garish

furniture and tawdry knickknacks scattere

about to show that it was not the dwelling

place of the desperately poor; but theswere only the accessories to the picture o

desolation and utter neglect having for it

central figure the woman stretched ou

upon the bed. She was asleep, and heface was turned toward the light whic

struggled feebly through the unwashe

window. Beauty there had been, and migh



be again, but not even the flush of healt

would efface the marks of Margare

Gannon's latest plunge into the chillin

depths of human indifference. Conniiptoed to the bedside and looked, and he

heart swelled within her.

It had fallen out in this wise. On thMonday night Mademoiselle Angeline—

known to her intimates as Mag Gannon—

saw fuzzy little circles expand an

contract around the gas-jets in the BijoTheatre while she was walking throug

her part in the farce. Tuesday night th

fuzzy circles became blurs; and the stag

manager swore audibly when she faltereand missed the step in her specialty. O

he Wednesday Mademoiselle Angeline

disappeared from the Bijou altogether



and for three days she had lain helples

and suffering, seeing no human face unti

Constance came and ministered to her

And the pity of it was that while the fevewrought its torturous will upon her

delirium would not come to help her t

forget that she was forgotten.

Constance had pieced out the pitifu

story by fragments while she was draggin

he woman back from the brink of the pi

and when all was said, she began tunderstand that a sick soul demands othe

remedies than drugs and dainties. Jus

what they were, or how they were to b

applied, was another matter; buConstance grappled with the problem a

ardently as if no one had ever befor

attacked it. In her later visits she alway



brought the conversation around t

Margaret's future; and on the afternoon o

he basket-procession, after she had mad

her patient eat and drink, she essayed oncagain to enlist the woman's will in he

own behalf.

"It's no use of me trying, MisConstance; I've got to go back when I'

fit. There ain't nothing else for the likes o

me to do."

"How can you tell till you try? O

Margaret, I wish you would try!"

A smile of hard-earned wisdom flitted

across the face of the woman. "You know

more than most of 'em," she said, "but yo

don't know it all. You can't, you see

you're so good the world puts on it



gloves before it touches you. But for th

ikes of me, we get the bare hand, an

we're playing in luck if it ain't made into

fist."

"You poor girl! It makes my heart ache

o think what you must have gone throug

before you could learn to say a thing likhat. But you must try; I can't let you g

back to that awful place after what you'v

old me about it."

"Supposing I did try; there's only th

one thing on earth I know how to do,—

hat's trim hats. Suppose you run you

pretty feet off till you found me a placwhere I could work right. How lon

would it be before somebody would go t

he missis, or the boss, or whoever i

might be, and say, 'See here; you've go



one of Pete Grim's Bijou women in there

That won't do.' And the night after, I'd be

doing my specialty again, if I was tha

ucky to get on."

"But you could learn to do housework

or something of that kind, so you coul

keep out of the way of people who woulremember you. You must have had some

experience."

The invalid rocked her head on thpillow. "That'd be worse than the other

Somebody'd be dead sure to find out an

ell; and then I'd be lucky if I got of

without going to jail. And for thexperience,—a minute ago you called m

a girl, but I know you didn't mean it. How

old do you think I am?"



Constance looked at the fever-burne

face, and tried to make allowances for th

ravages of disease. "I should say twenty

five," she replied, "only you talk as if yomight be older."

"I'll be eighteen next June, if I'd happe

o live that long," said Margaret; anConstance went home a few minutes late

with a new pain in her heart, born of th

simple statement.

At the gate she took the empty baske

and paid the boy. "That's all for to-day

but I want to give you some more work,

she said. "Every morning, and every noonand every night, until I tell you to stop,

want you to go up to that last place an

ask Margaret Gannon if there is anythin

you can do for her. And if she says yes



you do it; and if it's too big for you to do

you come right up here after me. Will you

do all that?"

"Will I? Will a yaller dorg eat hi

supper w'en he's hungry? You're jes' dead

right I'll do it. An' I'll be yere to-morre

afternoon, promp'."

All of which was well enough in it

way, but the problem was yet unsolved

and Constance had to draw heavily on hereserves of cheerfulness to be able t

make an accordant one of four whe

Richard Bartrow called that evening afte

dinner.



CHAPTER VI

During the week following the day o

repentance and backsliding, Jeffard'

regression down the inclined plan

became an accelerated rush. In tha

nterval he parted with his watch and hi

surveying instruments, and made

beginning on his surplus clothing. It was measure of the velocity of the descent tha

he watch, with the transit and leve

brought him no more than seven knife-and

fork meals and an occasional luncheonBut the clothing being transmutable i

smaller installments, did rather better.

Before the week was out, a bachelor'



apartment in a respectable localit

became an incongruous superfluity; an

having by no means reached th

philosophical level in his descent, he hihimself from all comers in a dubiou

neighborhood below Larimer Street.

The second week brought sharpemisery than the first, since it enforced th

pitiful shifts of vagrancy before he coul

acquire the spirit-breaking experienc

which makes them tolerable. But beformany days the poor remnants of pride an

self-respect gave up the unequal struggle

eaving him to his own devices; afte

which he soon learned how to keep aopen and unbalanced meal-and-ciga

account with his few unmercenary friends

In a short time, however, the friendly



ables began to grow scarce. Bartrow

went back to his mine, and with his goin

he doors of the St. James's dining-roo

opened no more to the proletary. Thecame the return of John Pettigrew, whos

hospitality was as boundless as the rang

whereon his herds grazed, and wh

claimed kinship with Jeffard because botchanced to be transplanted New

Englanders. While Pettigrew stayed i

Denver, Jeffard lived on the fat of th

and, eating at his friend's table at th

Albany, and gambling with the ranchman'

money at odd hours of the day and nigh

But after Pettigrew left there was anotheean interval, and Jeffard grew haggar

and ran his weight down at the rate of

pound a day.



In the midst of this came a spasm of th

reformative sort, born of a passin

glimpse of Stephen Elliott's daughter o

one of her charitable expeditions. Thncident brought him face to face with

fact which had been unconsciously lendin

desperation to despair. Now that th

discovery could be no more than an addewist of the thumbscrew, he began to

realize that he had found in the person o

he sweet-faced young woman with th

far-seeing eyes the Heaven-born alchemis

who could, if she so willed, transmute th

flinty perverseness of him into plasti

wax, shaping it after her own ideals; that iwas the unacknowledged beginning o

ove which had found wings for the short

ived flight of higher hopes and mor

worthy aspirations. The day of fasting an



penitence had set his feet in the wa

eading to reinstatement in his own goo

opinion; but the meeting with Constanc

was answerable for a worthier prompting—a perfervid determination to fight hi

way back to better things fo

righteousness' sake, knowing that n

otherwise could he hope to stand with heon the Mount of Benediction.

It was against this anointing of grac

hat he had sinned; and it was iremorseful memory of it that he brushe

his clothes, put on an ill-fitting air o

respectability, and tramped the streets in

fruitless search for employment until hwas ready to drop from fatigue an

hunger. Nothing came of it. The grea

public, and notably the employin



minority of it, is no mean physiognomis

and the gambler carries his hall-mark n

ess than the profligate or the drunkard.

At the close of one of these days o

disheartenment, a day wherein a singl

cup of coffee had been made to stan

sponsor for breakfast, luncheon, andinner, Jeffard saw a familiar figur

standing at the counter in one of th

newspaper offices. Knowing his man

Jeffard stopped on the sidewalk anwaited. If Lansdale had but the price of

single meal in his pocket, two men woul

share that meal that night.

There were two entrances to th

newspaper office, and Jeffard watche

beaglewise lest his chance of breaking hi

fast should vanish while he tarried



Presently Lansdale came out, and Jeffar

fell upon him before he could latch th

door.

"Salaam! Jeffard, my son," said th

outcomer. "I saw you waiting for me. How

goes the world-old struggle fo

existence?"

"Don't remind me of it, Lansdale; d

you happen to have the price of a mea

about you?"

Lansdale smiled, and gravely tuckin

Jeffard's arm under his own, steere

diagonally across the street toward th

open doors of a café.

"Now that is what our forefather

called Providence, and what we, being s



much wiser in our own generation, cal

uck," he declared. "I had just got a chec

out of the post-office for a bit of work sen

months ago to an editor whose name iunhasting. When you saw me I was closin

a negotiation, by the terms of which th

cashier of the 'Coloradoan' becomes m

banker. Behold, now, the mysteries of—shall we say Providence? At any tim

within the six months I would have swor

hat the opportune moment for the arriva

of this bit of money-paper had come

nevertheless Providence, and the slow

geared editor, get it here just in time to

save two men from going to besupperless. Why don't you sa

something?"

They were at the door of the café, an



Jeffard gripped his companion's arm an

hrust him in. "Can't you see that I'm to

damned hungry to talk?" he demande

savagely; and Lansdale wisely held hipeace until the barbarian in his guest ha

been appeased.

When the soup and fish hadisappeared, Jeffard was ashamed o

himself, and said as much.

"You mustn't mind what I said," hebegan, by way of making amends. "I use

o think I was a civilized being, but, Go

help me, Lansdale, I'm not! When I'v

gone without food for twenty-four houron end, I'm nothing more or less than

hungry savage."

Lansdale smiled intelligence. "I know



he taste of it, and it's bad medicine—fo

he soul as well as for the body," h

rejoined. "There is reason to suspect tha

Shakespeare never went hungry, else hwouldn't have said, 'Sweet are the uses o

adversity.' They're not sweet; they'r

damnably bitter. A man may come forth o

he winepress with bones unbroken annsight sharpened to the puncturing poin

but his capacity for evil will be increase

n just proportion."

"I don't want to believe that," sai

Jeffard, whose despair was not yet proo

against a good meal in good company.

"You needn't, but it's true. The

necessities breed a certain familiarit

with evil. Moral metes and bounds have

rick of disappearing in the day o



physical dearth. When hunger has driven

man over the ethical boundary a few

imes, the crossing becomes easy; an

when hunger drops the whip, inclination ivery likely to take it up."

Jeffard laughed. "'The words of Agu

he son of Jakeh,'" he quoted. "I believyou'd moralize if you were going to b

hanged, Lansdale."

"Perhaps I should. What possiblcontingency could offer bette

opportunities? And am I not going to b

hanged—or choked, which amounts to th

same thing?"

Jeffard looked up quickly and saw

what the myopia of hunger had hithert

obscured: that his companion's smooth



shaven face seemed gaunter than usua

and that his hands were unsteady when h

ifted the knife and fork.

"Colorado isn't helping you, then," h

said.

"No; but it isn't altogether Colorado'

fault. The Boston medicine man sai

change of climate, plenty of outdoo

ndolence, nutritious food at state

ntervals. I have all any one could ask ohe first, and as little of either of the other

as may be."

"But you do good work, Lansdale. I'v

always believed you could make it win, i

ime. Hasn't the time come yet?"

"No. What I can do easiest would brin



bread and meat, if I could sell it; but

iterary hack-writer has no business i

Colorado—or anywhere else outside o

he literary centres. In Boston I coulalways find an odd job of reviewing, o

space-writing, or something that woul

serve to keep body and soul together; bu

here they won't have me even in thnewspapers."

"Overcrowded, I suppose, lik

everything else in this cursed country."

"That's the alleged reason; but the fac

s that I'm not a journalist. You

horoughbred newspaper man has more oess contempt for a fellow who can't o

won't write journalese."

They had attained to the dessert, an



he waiter was opening a modest bottle o

claret for them. Jeffard turned hi

wineglass down.

"What! Is that the way you flout a man'

hospitality?" demanded Lansdale, in moc

displeasure.

"No; I don't mean to do that. But I'

drunken with feasting now, and if I pu

wine into me I shall pawn the coat off m

back before midnight for a stake to plawith."

Lansdale smiled. "I'll see that you don

have to. Turn up your glass."

But Jeffard was obstinate, and sa

munching raisins while Lansdale sippe

his wine. When the waiter brought th



cigars he came out of his reverie to say

"You want to live, don't you, Lansdale?"

The potential man of letters took timo think about it. "I suppose I do; else

shouldn't be starving to death in Denver,

he admitted finally.

"And there is nothing but the lack of

ittle ready money that keeps you fro

giving the Boston doctor's prescription

fair trial. If I had the money I believe I'change places with you; that is, I'd giv

you the money in exchange for your goo

chance of being able to shuffle of

mortality without the help of extraneoumeans. I think I've had enough of it."

"Do you? That proves how little a ma

has learned when he thinks he has arrived



ow pull yourself together, and tell m

what you really would do if you becam

suddenly rich."

"How rich?"

"Oh, make it a comfortable figure; sa

eight or ten thousand a month for a

ncome."

"I'd do what I said I should,—chang

places with you; only I suppose tha

wouldn't be possible. Failing that"—H

pondered over it for a moment, balancin

his fork on the edge of his plate the while

"A few weeks ago I should have mapped

out a future worth talking about. I had

ucid day, in which the things that mak

for ambition of the better sort had thei

nning. If you had asked me such



question then, I should doubtless have tol

you that I should try to realize the ideals o

other days; to walk uprightly, and to hold

great wealth as it should be held—in trusfor the good of one's kind; to win the lov

of the ideal woman, perhaps; and, havin

won it, to sit at her feet until I had learne

how to be God's almoner."

Lansdale's smile was not wholl

cynical. "But now?" he queried.

"But now I know my own limitations.

hink I should go back to the old farm i

he Berkshire Hills, and try to make it ear

me bread and meat."

"But you couldn't spend ten thousand

month on an abandoned farm, though

grant you it would be a pretty expensiv



uxury. What would you do with the lav

of it?"

Jeffard's lips tightened, and his facwas not pleasant to look upon. "I'd let i

go on accumulating, piling up and up til

here was no shadow of possibility that

should ever again come to know what imeans to be without money. And even then

should know I could never get enough,

he added.

This time Lansdale's smile was o

ncredulity. "Let me prophesy," he

suggested. "When your lucky da

overtakes you, you will do none of theshings. Jeffard the fool may be heard o

wherever the Associated Press has a wir

or a correspondent; but Jeffard the mise

will never exist outside of your ow



unbalanced imagination. Let's go out an

walk. It's fervidly close in here."

Arm in arm they paced the streets untinearly midnight, talking of things practica

and impracticable, and keeping well ou

of the present in either the past or th

future. When Lansdale said good-night, hstuffed a bank-note into Jeffard's pocket.

"It's only a loan," he protested, whe

Jeffard would have made him take it back"And there are no conditions. You can go

and play with it, if that's what you'd rathe

do."

The suggestion was unfortunate, thoug

possibly the result would have been th

same in any event. Five minutes afte

parting from Lansdale, Jeffard had take



his place in the silent group around th

able in the upper room; and by the tim

he pile of counters under his hand ha

ncreased to double the amount oLansdale's gift, he was oblivious t

everything save the one potent fact—tha

after so many reverses his luck had turne

at last.

Five hundred and odd dollars he had a

one time in that eventful sitting, and hi

neighbor across the corner of the table, grizzled miner with the jaw of a pugilis

and eyes that had a trick of softening like

woman's, had warned him by winks, nods

and sundry kicks under the table to stopJeffard scowled his resentment of th

nterference and played on, losing steadil

until his capital had shrunk to fifty dollars



Then the miner rose up in his place

reached across, and gave Jeffard an open

handed buffet that nearly knocked him ou

of his chair.

"Dad blame you!" he roared; "I'll lear

you how to spile my play! Stan' up an

fight it out like a man!"

The game stopped at once. The deale

held his hand, and the banker reached fo

his revolver.

"You two gen'lemen cash in and get ou

o' here," he commanded. "This is

gen'leman's game, and we don't run n

shootin'-gallery—leastwise, not unless

have to take a hand in it. Pass in you

chips."



They both obeyed; the miner wit

maledictory reluctance, and Jeffard in

remulous frenzy of wrath. When the

reached the sidewalk, Jeffard flunhimself savagely upon his assailant, onl

o learn that abstinence is a poor trainer

and that he was little better than a lay

figure in the grasp of the square-jaweone with the melting eyes. The big ma

hrust him into a corner and held him ther

until he listened to reason.

"You blamed idjit! you hain't got sense

enough to go in when it rains! Hold still,

'll bump your head ag'inst the wall! As

was sayin', you don't know enough tpound sand. Every single time I've been i

his dive, you've been here, too, a-blowin

yourself like you had a wad as big as



feather bed, and you know danged wel

you hain't got nothin'. And you wouldn't 'a

kep' a dern cent to-night, if I hadn

humped you and raised a row. Now yogo and hunt you a place to sleep whil

you've got dust enough to pay for it; an

don't you come round here ag'in till you'v

put a whole grub-stake inside of youSavez?"



CHAPTER VII

From the beginning of the cannibalisti

stage of the journey down the incline

plane, Jeffard had determined that, com

what might, he would keep enough of hi

wardrobe to enable him to present a

outward appearance of respectability

With a vague premonition of the nomprobable end of the journey he recoile

at the thought of figuring before

coroner's jury as a common vagrant.

This resolution, however, like al

others of a prideful nature, went dow

before the renewed assaults of the allies

hunger and dementia. Whereby it speedil



came to pass that he retained only th

garments he stood in, and these soo

became shabby and wayworn. Since, i

his own estimation, if not in that of othershe clothes do make the man to a ver

considerable extent, Jeffard graduall

withdrew from his former lounging

places, confining himself to the lescritical region below Larimer Stree

during the day, and avoiding as much a

possible the haunts of his forme

associates at all hours.

It was for this cause that Bartrow, o

his return from Chaffee County, wa

unable to find Jeffard. Meeting Lansdalwhen the search had become unhopefu

he large-hearted man of the altitude

amented his failure after his own peculia



fashion.

"When was it you saw him last?" h

nquired of the transplanted Bostonian."It was about a week ago. To be exact

t was a week Tuesday. I remembe

because we dined together that evening."

"Now doesn't that beat the band? Her

've gone and got him a soft snap up on th

range—good pay, and little or nothing to

do—and he's got to go and drop out like

monte man's little joker. It's enough to

make a man swear continuous!"

"I don't think he would have gone wityou," Lansdale ventured.

"Wouldn't, eh? If I can find him I'll take

him by the neck and make him go; savez



How do you put it up? Runaway? or a pil

of bones out on the prairie somewhere?"

"It's hard to say. Jeffard's a queecombination of good and not so good,—

ike a few others of us,—and just now th

negative part is on top. He was pretty low

he night we were together, though whewe separated I thought he was takin

himself a little less seriously."

"Didn't talk about getting the drop ohimself, or anything like that?"

"N—no, not in a way to leave th

mpression that he was in any immediat

danger of doing such a thing."

Bartrow chewed the end of his ciga

reflectively. "Hasn't taken to quizzing th



world through the bottom of a whiskey

glass?"

"No, I should say not. Thus far, I thinkhe has but the one devil."

"And that's the 'tiger,' of course. I knew

about that; I've known it all along. Th

Lord forgive me! I don't know but I wa

he ring-master in that show. You know

we chased around a good deal together

along at the first, and it's as likely as not showed him a whole lot of things he'

better not have seen."

The half-cynical smile lightened upo

Lansdale's grave face. "That is one of m

criticisms of Western manners," he

commented. "When you get hold of

stranger, you welcome him with ope



arms—and proceed to regale him with

near-hand view of the back yards an

cesspools. And then you swear piteousl

when he goes back East and tells hifriends what an abandoned lot you are."

Bartrow took the thrust good-naturedly

as he did most of his chastenings. "That'right; that's just about what we do. Bu

you've been here long enough now t

know that it's meant for hospitality. It's

way we've got into of taking it for grantehat people come out here more to see th

sights than for any other purpose."

"Oh, it's good of you—I don't deny thatonly it's a little rough on the new-comer

sometimes. Take Jeffard's case, fo

example. He came to Denver with goo

ntroductions; I know, for I saw some o



hem. But a man in a strange city doesn

often go about presenting his socia

credentials. What he does is to make

few haphazard acquaintances, and let theset the pace for him. That is what Jeffar

did, and I'll venture to say there have bee

nine evil doors open to him to one goo

one. You've known him longer than anyone else—how many times have yo

nvited him to spend a rational evenin

with you in the company of respectabl

people?"

"Good Lord, Lansdale; for Heaven'

sake don't begin to open up that lead

We're all miserable sinners, and I'm themedicine-man of the tribe. I never aske

he poor devil to go visiting with me bu

once, and that was after he was down."



"And then he wouldn't go, as a matte

of course. But that is neither here no

here. I'll find him for you, if I can, an

eave word for you at the St. James."

"You're a brick, Lansdale; that's abou

what you are. I'll get square with yo

some day. By the way, can't you come upo Steve Elliott's with me this evening an

meet some good people?"

Lansdale laughed outright. "You're agood fellow, Bartrow, but you're no

diplomat. When I go a-fishing into you

mentality you'll never see the hook. Mak

my apologies to your friends, and tell the'm an invalid."

And Bartrow, being densely practical

and so proof against irony of whatsoeve



calibre, actually did so that evening whe

he called upon Miss Elliott and he

cousin.

"But your friend wasn't promised to us

Mr. Bartrow," objected Miss Van Vetter.

"Why should he send excuses?"

"I'm blessed if I know," said hones

Dick, looking innocently from one to th

other of them. "But that's what he told m

o do, and I've done it."

Constance laughed softly. "You're too

good for any use, Dick. He was makin

game of you. Tell us how he came to say

t."

Bartrow did that, also; and the tw

young women laughed in chorus.



"After you've had your fun out of it

wish you'd tell me, so I can laugh too," h

said. "I can't see where the joke comes in

myself."

Constance enlightened him. "There isn

any joke—only this: he had just bee

scolding you about your inhospitality, andhen you turn on him and ask him to g

calling with you. Of course, he couldn

accept, then; it would have been lik

nviting himself."

"Well, what of it? I don't see why he

shouldn't invite himself, if he felt like it

He's a rattling good fellow." And fromhence the talk drifted easily to Jeffard

who was, or who had been, another goo

fellow.



At the mention of Jeffard's name

Constance borrowed the mask o

disinterest, and laid her commands o

Bartrow. "Tell us about him," she said.

"There isn't much to tell. He came her

from somewhere back East, got into ba

company, lost his money, and now he'disappeared."

"How did he lose his money?

Constance would have asked the questionbut her cousin forestalled her.

"Gambled it," quoth Bartrow placidly.

Constance looked sorry, and Miss VanVetter was plainly shocked. "How very

dreadful!" said the latter. "Did he los

much?"



"Oh, no; you couldn't call it much—

only a few thousands, I believe. But then

you see, it was his stake; it was all he had

and he couldn't afford to give it up. Andnow he has gone and hid out somewher

ust when I have found a place for him. I

makes me very weary."

"Can't you find any trace of him?

queried Constance. "That is singular.

should think he would have left hi

address."

Bartrow grinned. "Well, hardly. Man

don't leave his address when he wants t

drop out. That's the one thing he's prettsure to take with him. But we'll run hi

down yet, if he's on top of earth. Lansdal

has seen more of him lately than I have

and he is taking a hand. He and Jeffar



used to flock together a good deal whe

he shoe was on the other foot."

Miss Van Vetter looked mystified; andBartrow deemed it a matter for self

congratulation that he was able t

comprehend the query in her eyes withou

having it hurled at him in so many words.

"That was while Jeffard had money

and Lansdale was trying to starve himsel

o death," he explained. "You seeLansdale is a queer fish in some ways

When he's down he won't let anybod

ouch him on his money side, so we use

o work all kinds of schemes to keep higoing. Jeffard would study them up, an

'd help him steer them."

This was practical benevolence, an



Connie's interest bestirred itself in it

charitable part. "What were some of th

schemes?" she asked.

"Oh, there were a lot of them. Lansdal

can see farther into a millstone than mos

people, and we had to invent new ones a

we went along. One time, Jeffard bought common, every-day sort of a pocketbook

and rumpled it up and tramped on it till i

ooked as if it might have come across th

plains in Fifty-nine. Then he put a twentydollar bill and some loose silver in it, an

dropped it on the sidewalk where I wa

walking Lansdale up and down for hi

health. After a while, when he'd actuallstumbled over it four or five times

Lansdale saw the wallet and picked it up

Right there the scheme nearly fell down



You see, he was going to make me take

charge of it while he advertised it. I go

out of it, somehow, but I don't believe h

used a nickel of the money for a month."

Connie clapped her hands softly. "Tha

was fine! Tell us some more."

"The next one was better, and i

worked like a charm. Lansdale write

hings for the papers, only the editors her

wouldn't buy any of his work"—

"Why not?" interrupted Miss Van

Vetter.

"I don't know; because it was too goodguess. Anyway, they wouldn't buy it, so

Jeffard went to work on that lead. I too

him around and introduced him t



Kershaw of the 'Coloradoan,' and he mad

Kershaw take fifty dollars on deposit, an

got him to promise to accept some o

Lansdale's stories. Kershaw kicked likhe deu—like the mischief, and didn't wan

o do it; but we bullied him, and then I go

Lansdale to send him some stuff."

"Mr. Jeffard is an artist in schemes

and I envy him," said Connie. "Wha

happened to that one?"

"Kershaw upset it by not printing th

stuff. Of course, Lansdale watched th

Coloradoan,' and when he found he wasn

n it, he wouldn't send any more. Wecaught him the next time, though, fo

something worth while."

"How was that?" It was Miss Van



Vetter who asked the question; and

Bartrow made a strenuous effort to evad

he frontier idiom which stood ready t

rip him at every turn when Myra VanVetter's poiseful gaze rested upon him.

"Why, I happen to have a played-out—

er—that is, a sort of no-account mine up iClear Creek, and I made Lansdale believ

was the resident agent for the property

authorized to get up a descriptiv

prospectus. He took the job of writing iand never once tumbled to the racket—tha

s, he never suspected that we wer

working him for a—oh, good Lord, wh

can't I talk plain English!—you know whamean; he thought it was all straigh

Well, he turned in the copy, and we paid

him as much as he'd stand; but he has jus



about worried the life out of me eve

since, trying to get to read proof on tha

prospectus. That one was Jeffard's idea

oo, but I made him let me in on thassessment."

Before Miss Van Vetter could inquire

what the "assessment" was, StepheElliott came in and the talk becam

general. An hour later, when Bartrow took

his leave, Constance went to the door wit

him.

"Don't you really know where Mr

Jeffard is, Dick?" she asked.

Something in her tone set him upon th

right track. "No; do you?"

"I know that he left Denver quite



while ago; about the time you were dow

ast."

"How do you know it?""He told me he was going."

"The mischief he did! Where did yo

get acquainted with him?"

"At Mrs. Calmaine's."

Honest Dick ground his heel into thdoor-mat and thrust his hands deep int

he pockets of his overcoat. What was i

his mind came out shorn of euphemism.

"Say, Connie, do you care anythin

about him?"

"What a question!" she retorted, no



pretending to misunderstand its pointing

"I've met him only once—or twice,

should say, though I didn't even know hi

name the first time."

"What did he tell you? about his goin

away, I mean."

"He said—but you've no right to as

me, Dick. It wasn't exactly a confidence

but"—

"Yes, I have a right to ask; he was my

friend a good while before he was yours

Tell me what he said."

"He gave me to understand that thinghadn't been going quite right with him, an

he said he was going to the mountains to—

o try to make another start."



Bartrow tucked Connie's arm under hi

own and walked her up and down the lon

veranda twice before he could brin

himself to say the thing that was.

"He didn't go, Connie; he's here now, i

he hasn't gone out on the prairi

somewhere and taken a pot shot ahimself. Lansdale saw him only a week o

so ago."

"Oh, Dick!"

"It's tough, isn't it?" He stood on th

step and buttoned his coat. "But I'm gla

you know him—or at least, know who h

s. If you should happen to run across hi

n any of your charity trips, just se

Tommie on him and wire me if you find

out where he burrows."



"You said you had found a place fo

him. Will it keep?"

"I'll try to hold it open for him, and iyou wire, I'll come down and tackle him

He's too good a fellow to turn down in hi

ittle day of witlessness. Good-night; an

good-by—for a week or so. I've got to gback on the morning train."



CHAPTER VIII

Contrary to the doctor's prophecy

Margaret Gannon's progress towar

recovery was slow and rather uncertain

Constance professed to be sorry, but i

her heart she was thankful, since th

hesitant convalescence gave her time t

ry many expedients pointing toward thmoral rehabilitation of her protégée

gnoring Margaret's bodeful prediction

Constance coursed far and wide

quartering the domestic field diligentlybut inasmuch as she was careful in eac

nstance to state the exact truth, eac

endeavor was but the introduction t

another failure.



"Why, Constance Elliott! The idea o

your proposing such a thing to me!" sai

Mrs. Calmaine, upon whose motherl

good sense Connie had leaned frochildhood. "That is what comes of a gir

growing up as you have without a mothe

o watch over her. Can't you understand

how dreadful it is for you to mix up isuch things? You can't touch pitch and no

be defiled."

Connie was moved, first to tears, anpresently to indignation.

"No, I can't understand anything of th

kind," she retorted. "It's your privilege noo take Margaret if you don't want her; bu

t's mine to help her, if I can. And I mean

o do it in spite of all the cruel prejudic

n the world!"



"You talk like a foolish child, Connie.

can tell you beforehand that you won

succeed in getting the woman into an

respectable household in Denver, unlesyou do it under false pretenses."

"So much the worse for ou

Christianity, then," Connie assertedstoutly. "If people won't help, they'll hav

t to answer to One who wasn't afraid t

ake a much worse woman by the hand

That's all I have to say about it."

Mrs. Calmaine smiled benignantly. Sh

had daughters of her own, and knew how

o make allowances for youthfuenthusiasm.

"You will get over it, after a while

and then you'll see how foolish it is to tr



o reform the world single-handed," sh

rejoined. "You might as well try to move

Pike's Peak as to think you can remode

society after your own enthusiastinotions. And when the reflective after

ime comes, you'll be glad that societ

didn't let you make a martyr of yourself a

ts expense.

"And, Connie, dear; there is anothe

side of the question which you shoul

consider," she continued, going to the doowith her visitor. "It's this: since society a

a unit insists upon having this particula

kind of reformative work turned over t

organizations designed for the purposehere must be a sufficient reason for i

You are not wiser than the aggregated

wisdom of the civilized centuries."



Constance went her way, silenced, bu

by no means convinced; and she adde

hree more failures to her long list befor

going home to luncheon. In the afternoonshe laid hold of her courage yet onc

again, and went to her minister, good Dr

Launceston, pastor of St. Cyril's-in-the

Desert. Here, indeed, she found sympathwithout stint, but it was hopelessly void o

practical suggestion.

"It is certainly most pitiful, MisElliott, pitiful to a degree; but I reall

don't see what is to be done. Had you an

plan in view that, ah"—

"It is because all my plans have com

o grief that I am here," said Connie.

"Dear, dear! and those cases are so



very hard to deal with. Now, if it were

question of money, I dare say we could

manage it quite easily."

Constance had some very clear idea

on reformative subjects, and one of the

was that it was not less culpable t

pauperize than to ignore.

"It isn't that," she made haste to say. "

could get money easily enough, bu

Margaret wouldn't take it. If she would, should have small hopes for her."

"No," rejoined the clergyma

reflectively; "you are quite right. It is not

problem to be solved by money. Th

young woman must be given a chance t

win her way back to respectability by he

own efforts. Do I understand that she i



willing to try if the opportunity shoul

present itself?"

"I'm afraid I can't say that she is—nowithout reservation," Connie admitted

"You see, she knows the cruel side of the

world; and she is quite sure that any effor

she might make would end in defeat andeeper disgrace."

"A very natural apprehension, and on

for which there are only too googrounds," said the clergyman sadly. "We

are compassionate and charitable in th

aggregate, but as individuals I fear we ar

very unmerciful. Had you thought of tryino send her to one of our institutiona

homes in the East? I might possibly b

able to make such representations a

would"—



Constance shook her head. "Margare

s a Roman Catholic, and I suggested th

House of the Good Shepherd in one of ou

earlier talks. She fought the idedesperately, and I don't know that I blam

her. She is just a woman like othe

women, and I believe she would gladl

undertake an honest woman's work in thworld; but that isn't saying she'd b

willing to become a lay-sister."

"No, I suppose not; I quite agree wityou. But what else can you do for her?"

"I don't know, Doctor Launceston,—

oh, I don't know! But I'll never give up til've done something."

In the momentary afflatus of which fin

determination Constance went her wa



again, not wholly comfortless this time

but apparently quite as far from th

solution of the problem as when she ha

atched Mrs. Calmaine's gate behind her.

As for the clergyman, the preciou

fervor of the young enthusiast left a spar

n his heart which burst into flame on thfollowing Sunday morning, when h

preached a stirring sermon from the tex

"Who is my neighbor?" to the decorou

and well-fed congregation of St. Cyril'sn-the-Desert.

Leaving the rectory, Constanc

postponed the quest for that afternoon anwent to pay her daily visit to Margaret. O

he way downtown a happy thought cam

o her, and she welcomed it as a

nspiration, setting it to work as soon a



she had put the convalescent's room i

order.

"You are feeling better to-day, aren'you, Margaret?" she began.

"Yes. I'm thinking I'll be able to go to

work again before long; only Pete Gri

mightn't have no use for me."

Constance brought the hair-brush, an

etting Margaret's luxuriant hair fall i

heavy masses over the back of the chair

began another of her ministries of service

"Do you really want to go back to th

Bijou?" she asked, knowing well enougwhat the answer would be.

"You know you needn't to ask that; it'

ust Pete Grim's place or somethin



worse. I can't do no different"—sh

paused and the fingers of her claspe

hands worked nervously—"and you can

help it, Miss Constance. I know you'vbeen trying and worrying; but it ain't n

use."

Connie did not find words to reply aonce, but after a little she said: "Tell me

more about your old home, Margaret."

"I've told you all there was to telmany's the time since you found me wit

he fever."

"Let me see if I can remember it. You

said your father was the villag

blacksmith, and that you used to sit in th

shop and watch the sparks fly from th

anvil as he worked. And when his day'



work was done, he would take you on hi

shoulder and carry you home to you

mother, who called you her pretty colleen

and loved you because you were the onlgirl. And then"—

"Oh, don't !" There was sharp anguis

n the cry, and Margaret covered her eyewith her hands as if to shut out the picture

Constance waited until she thought she ha

given the seed time to germinate. Then sh

went on.

"And when you left home they mourne

for you, not as one dead, but as one livin

and still beloved; and as long as thecould keep track of you they begged you t

come back to them. Margaret, won't yo

go?"



Margaret shook her head in passionat

negation. "I can't— I can't! that's the on

hing I can't do! Didn't I bring them sham

enough and misery enough in the one dayand will I be going back to stir it all up

again? having the people say, 'There's Pa

Gannon's girl come back; she that went t

he bad and broke her mother's heartndeed, I'll not do that, Miss Constance

hough the saints and the holy angels'll tel

you I'd do anything else you'd ask."

This was Connie's happy thought; t

nduce Margaret to go back to her parents

When it proved to be but another rope o

sand, she allowed it one sigh and changefront so cheerfully that Margaret neve

knew the cost of the effort.

"Then we must try something else," sh



nsisted. "I'll never let you go back to th

heatre—that's settled. You told me once

you could trim hats. Have you ever don

any other kind of sewing?"

Margaret knelt before her trunk an

hrew out an armful of her stage finery. "

made them," she said.

Constance examined the wor

critically. It was good, and she too

courage. "That is our way out of throuble, Margaret. Why didn't we think o

t before? When you are well enough, I'l

get you a sewing-machine and find you al

he work you can do."

Margaret went to the window an

stood there so long that Constance bega

o tremble lest the battle were goin



evilward at the last moment. The fear wa

groundless, as she found out when the gir

came back to kneel and cry silently wit

her face in Connie's lap.

"It isn't so much the love of you," sh

sobbed; "it's the knowing that somebod

cares whether the likes of me goes straigho the devil or not. And never so much a

a word about behaving myself, o

confessing to the priest, or anything. Mis

Constance,"—this with uplifted facegrown suddenly beautiful and glorified i

he outshining of penitence,—"the devi

may fly away with me,—he did that sam

one day,—but if he does, I'll not live toeave him have the good of it. I promis

you that."

"I can trust you," said Constance; an



she took her leave presently, wonderin

how the many-sided world could so unif

tself in its merciless condemnation of th

Magdalenes.

When she had closed Margaret's doo

behind her and was halfway to the stair

she heard sounds as of a scuffle cominfrom a corridor intersecting the mai

hallway at the landing. Her first impuls

was to retreat to Margaret Gannon's room

but when she recognized Tommie's voiceuplifted in alternate plea and imprecation

she went forward quickly. At the turn she

met a gaunt, unshaven man leadin

Tommie by the ear, and her indignationslipped the leash without a thought o

consequences.

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself t



abuse a child like that!" she began; an

hen two things happened: Jeffard release

he boy, and Constance recognized in th

gaunt figure the wreck of the man whoshe had bidden God-speed on the stair a

he Calmaine dancing party.

Jeffard flattened himself against thwall, bowed low, and was about to

apologize, when Tommie, scenting an

accusation, proceeded to vindicat

himself by exploding a veritable bomb oconsternation between the two.

"I warn't doin' ary single thing, Mis

Constance, 'ceptin' jest wot you telled mo do. I caught on to his nibs down on d

street an' follered him up yere; an' w'en

was takin' a squint t'rough de keyhole, jes

o make sure, he outs an' nabs me."



For one dreadful instant Connie though

she must scream and run away. Then he

wits came back, and she saw tha

deliverance could come only through swifconfession.

"Tommie," she said hastily, "run down

and wait for me on the sidewalk." Andhen to Jeffard: "The poor boy wasn't t

blame; he was doing just what he had bee

old to do, and you have a right to ask—t

—to know"—She stopped in pitiablembarrassment, and Jeffard flung himsel

nto the breach with chivalric tact.

"Not another word, Miss Elliott, mplore you. It isn't the first time I hav

been taken for my double, and in broa

daylight at that. May I go down and mak

my peace with the boy?"



Constance was too greatly perturbe

not to catch gratefully at the chance t

escape, and she made use of it whil

Jeffard was talking to Tommie at the fooof the stair. Taking Constance's nod and

smile in passing as tokens of amity, th

urchin allowed himself to be placated; an

when Jeffard went back to his room hknew all that Tommie could tell him abou

Miss Elliott and her deeds of mercy.

That night, before he went out to tramhimself weary, Jeffard did a characteristi

hing. He wrapped his last five-dollar not

around a bit of plaster dug from the wal

and creeping through the corridor in histocking feet, tossed the pellet over th

ransom into Margaret Gannon's room.



CHAPTER IX

At the breakfast-table the next morning

Constance had a shock that set her nerve

a-jangle and banished her appetite. Th

exciting cause was a paragraph in th

morning "Coloradoan" which her fathe

had been reading between the fruit and th

cereals.

"I wonder if that isn't the fellow Dic

was looking for and couldn't find," h

queried, passing the paper across the tabl

with his finger on the suggestiv

paragraph.

It was a custom-hardened account of



commonplace tragedy. A man whose name

was given as George Jeffrey had sho

himself an hour before midnight on one o

he bridges spanning Cherry CreekConstance read the story of the traged

with her father's remark in abeyance, an

he shock came with the conviction that th

self-slain one was Jeffard, whose nammight easily become Jeffrey in the hurrie

notes of a news-gatherer. The meagr

particulars tallied accurately wit

Bartrow's terse account of Jeffard'

sociological experiment. The suicide wa

a late-comer from the farther East; he ha

spent his money in riotous living; and hhad latterly been lost to those who knew

him best.

It was characteristic of Stephe



Elliott's daughter that she passed the pape

back to her father without comment, an

hat she preserved an outward presentmen

of cheerfulness during the remainder of thmeal. But when she was free she ran up t

her room and was seen no more of he

father or her cousin until the latter wen

upstairs an hour later to see if Conniwere ready for her morning walk.

"Why, Connie, dear! What is th

matter?"

Since her tap at the door wen

unanswered, Myra had turned the kno

and entered. Connie was lying in dejected little heap on the floor before th

fireless grate. She shook her head in dum

protest at her cousin's question; but whe

Myra knelt beside her it all came ou



brokenly.

"You didn't see what poppa gave me to

read: it was an account of a suicide. MrJeffard has killed himself, and—and, oh

Myra! it's all my fault!"

"Mr. Jeffard? Oh, I remember now,—

Mr. Bartrow's friend. But I don

understand; how could it have been you

fault?"

"It was, it was! Don't you remembe

what Dick said? that Mr. Jeffard was i

rouble, and that he had a place for him?

saw him yesterday, and I— I didn't tel

him!"

"But, Connie, dear, how could you

You didn't know him." Getting no more



han a smothered sob in reply to this, Myr

asked for particulars, and Connie gav

hem sparingly.

"You say the name was George

Jeffrey? Why do you think it was Mr

Jeffard? I can't for the life of me see how

you are to blame, in the remotest sensebut if you are, it's foolish to grieve over i

until you are quite sure of the identities

sn't there any way you can find out?"

Connie sat up at that, but she refused t

be comforted.

"There is a way, and I'll try it; but it'

no use, Myra. I'm just as sure as if I ha

stood beside him when he did it. And

shall never, never forgive myself!"



She got up and bathed her eyes, an

when she had made herself ready to g

out, she refused Myra's proffer o

company.

"No, dear; thank you, but I'd rather g

alone," she objected; "I'll share the miser

of it with you by and by, perhaps, but can't just yet."

Her plan for making sure was a simpl

one. Tommie Reagan had known Jeffardiving, and he would know him dead

Putting it in train, she found her smal

henchman selling papers on his regula

beat in front of the Opera House; annasmuch as he was crying the principa

fact of the tragedy, she was spared th

necessity of entering into details.



"Tommie, have you—did you go to see

he man who killed himself last night?

she questioned.

"Nope; der ain't no morbid cur'osit

nside o' me."

"Would you go?—if I asked you to?"

"W'y, cert; I'd take a squint at de old

feller wid de hoofs an' horns if it'd do yo

any good."

"Then I'll tell you why I want you t

go. I am afraid it is the man we wer

going to try to help."

The boy shut one eye and whistle

softly. "My gosh! but dat's tough, ain't i

now! An' jest w'en I'd got 'quainted with

him an' was a-fixin' to give him a lift



Dat's wot I call hard luck!"

Constance felt that the uncertainty wa

no longer to be borne. "Go quicklyTommie," she directed; "and hurry back a

soon as you can. I'll wait for you in th

drug store across the street."

The coroner's office was not far t

seek, and the small scout was back in

few minutes.

"Dey wouldn't lemme look," h

reported, "but I skinned round to where

could see de top o' his head. It's his nibs

right 'nough."

"Tommie! Are you quite sure?"

"Nope; feller ain't sure o' nothin' in di

world, 'ceptin' death an' de penitenchry,



amended Tommie, doing violence to hi

convictions when he saw that his patro

saint was sorely in need of comfort

"Maybe 'tain't him, after all. You jest loaround yere a couple o' shakes while I skip

down to his hotel an' see wot I can di

up."

The boy was gone less than a quarte

of an hour, but to Constance the minute

marched leaden-footed. When Tommie

returned, his face signaled discomfiture.

"I didn't send me card up," h

explained, with impish gravity; "I jes

went right up to his nibsey's room anmogged in, a-thinkin' I'd offer him a pape

f he happened to be there and kicked

Say, Miss Constance; 'tain't a-goin' ter do

no good to cry about it. He ain't there, an



he ain't been there, 'nless he slep' in

chair."

Constance went home with a lump iher throat and her trouble writ large on he

face, and Myra needed not to ask the resul

of the investigation. Miss Van Vetter was

not less curious than she should havbeen, but something in Connie's eye

forestalled inquiry, and Myra held he

peace.

Connie wore out the day as best sh

might, widening the rift of sorrow until i

bade fair to become an abyss of remorse

When evening came, and with it elegram from Bartrow, asking if she had

yet learned Jeffard's whereabouts, it wa

oo much, and she shared the misery wit

her cousin, as she had promised to



making a clean breast of it from th

beginning. Something to her surprise

Myra heard her through without a word o

condemnation or reproach.

"Now that is something I ca

understand," said Myra, when the tale wa

old. "The most of your charity worseems to me to be pitifully commonplac

and inconsequent; but here was a missio

which asked for all sorts of heroism, fo

which it promised to pay the highest of alprices, namely, the possibility of saving

man worth the trouble."

Now Connie was well assured that heove for her neighbor was no respecter o

persons, and she made answe

accordingly.



"I can't agree with you there, Myra. Mr

Jeffard's possible worth had nothing to d

with it. I wanted to help him because—

well, because it was mean in me to makhim talk about himself that night at th

opera. And besides, when I met him th

next evening at Mrs. Calmaine's, he tol

me enough to make me quite sure that hneeded all the help and encouragement h

could get. Of course, he didn't sa

anything like that, you know; but I knew."

Myra's eyes promised sympathy, and

Connie went on.

"Then, when I came upon hiyesterday I was angry because he wa

hurting Tommie. And afterward, when

ried to explain, he made me understan

hat I mustn't reach down to him; and—an



didn't know any other way to go abou

t."

"That was a situation in which I shoulprobably have horrified you," said Myr

decisively. "I shouldn't have noticed o

known anything about him at first, as yo

did; but in your place yesterday, and wityour knowledge of the circumstances,

should have said my say whether h

wanted to hear it or not. And I'd hav

made him listen to reason, too."

"You don't quite understand, Myra. I

seemed altogether impossible; though if

had known what was in his mind I shoulhave spoken at any cost."

Twenty times the pendulum of the

chalet clock on the wall beat the seconds



and Myra was silent; then she crosse

over to Connie's chair and sat upon th

arm of it.

"Connie, dear, you're crying again,"—

his with her arm around her cousin's neck

"Are you quite sure you haven't bee

elling me half-truths? Wasn't there theeast little bit of a feeling warmer tha

charity in your heart for this poor fellow?

Constance shook her head, but thdenial did not set itself in words. "He wa

Dick's friend, and that was enough," sh

replied.

Miss Van Vetter's lips brushed her

cousin's cheek, and Constance felt a war

ear plash on her hand. This was quit

another Myra from the one she thought sh



knew, and she said as much.

"We're all puzzles, Connie dear, and

he answers to most of us have been lostbut, do you know, I can't help crying

ittle with you for this poor fellow. Just to

hink of him lying there with no one withi

a thousand miles to care the least little biabout it. And if you are right—if it is Mr

Bartrow's friend—it's so much the mor

pitiful. The world is poorer when suc

men leave it."

"Why, Myra! What do you know abou

him?"

"Nothing more than you do—or a

much. But surely you haven't forgotte

what Mr. Bartrow told us."



"About his helping Mr. Lansdale?"

"Yes."

"No, I hadn't forgotten."

"It was very noble; and so delicatel

chivalrous. It seems as if one who di

such things would surely be helped in hiown day of misfortune. But that doesn

often happen, I'm afraid."

"No," Constance assented, with a sighand Myra went back to the question o

dentity.

"I suppose there is no possible chanchat Tommie may have been mistaken?"

Constance shook her head. "I think no

he saw that I was troubled about it, and h



would have strained a point to comfort m

f the facts had given him leave. But I shal

be quite sure before I answer Dick'

message."

With that thought in mind, and with no

hope behind it, Constance waylaid he

father in the hall the next morning as hwas about to go out.

"Poppa, I want you to do something fo

me; no, not that"—the elderly man wafeeling in his pockets for his check-boo

—"it is something very different, this time

different and—and rather dreadful. You

remember the suicide you read aboutyesterday morning?"

"Did I read about one? Oh, yes; th

man that shot himself down on the Platte



or was it Cherry Creek? The fellow

hought might be Dick's friend. What abou

t?"

"It's that. We ought to make sure of i

for Dick's sake, you know. Won't you go

o the coroner's office and see if it is Mr

Jeffard? It's a horrible thing to ask you tdo, but"—

There was grim reminiscence in th

old pioneer's smile. "It won't be the firsone I've seen that died with his boots on

'll go and locate your claim for you."

She kissed him good-by, but he cam

back from the gate to say: "Hold on, here

don't know your Mr. Jeffard from a sid

of sole leather. How am I going to identify

him?"



"You've seen him once," she explained

"Do you remember the man who sat nex

o me the night we went to hear 'Th

Bohemian Girl'?"

"The thirsty one that you and Myr

made a bet on? Yes, I recollect him."

"I don't think he was thirsty. Would you

know him if you were to see him again?"

"I guess maybe I would; I've seen hi

half a dozen times since,—met him ou

here on the sidewalk the next morning. I

hat your man?"

"That was Mr. Jeffard," she affirmedurning away that he might not see the tear

hat welled up unbidden.

"All right; I'll go and identify him fo



you."

So he said, and so he meant to do; bu

t proved to be a rather exciting day at thMining Exchange, and he forgot th

commission until he was about to board

homeward-bound car in the evening. The

he found that he was too late. The body ohe suicide had been shipped East i

accordance with telegraphic instruction

received at noon. When he made hi

report to Constance, she fell back upoTommie's assurance, and sent the delayed

answer to Bartrow's message, telling hi

hat his friend was dead.

Having sorrowfully recorded all thes

hings in the book of facts accomplished, i

was not wonderful that Constance, comin

out of Margaret Gannon's room late th



following afternoon, should cover her fac

and cry out in something akin to terro

when she cannoned against Jeffard at th

urn in the dingy hallway. Neither was iremarkable that her strength shoul

forsake her for the moment; nor tha

Jeffard, seeing her plight, should forget hi

degradation and give her timely help beading her to a seat in the dusty window

embrasure. At that the conventionalities

or such shreds of them as might still hav

bound either of them, parted asunder in th

midst, and for the time being they were bu

a man and a woman, as God had create

hem."Oh, I'm so glad!" were her firs

words. "I—I thought you were dead!"

"I ought to be," was his comment. "Bu



what made you think that?"

"It was in the newspaper—about th

man who shot himself. I was afraid it wayou, and when Tommie had been to see

we were sure of it."

"In the newspaper?" he queried; an

hen, with a ghost of a smile which wa

mirthless: "It was a little previous, but s

ustifiable that I really ought to take th

hint. Can't you tell me more? I'mmensely interested."

She told him everything from th

beginning, concluding with a pathetic littl

appeal for forgiveness if she had don

wrong in taking too much for granted.

"You couldn't well do that," he



hastened to say. "And you mustn't as

forgiveness for motives which an ange

might envy. But it is casting pearls befor

swine in my case, Miss Elliott. I havsown the wind, deliberately and wit

malice aforethought, and now I am reapin

he whirlwind, and regretting day by da

hat it doesn't develop sufficient violenco finish that which it has begun."

"Please don't say that," she pleaded

"There are always hands stretched out thelp us, if we could but see and lay hol

of them. Why won't you let Dick help yo

when he is so anxious to do it? You will

now that you know about it, won't you?"

"I knew about it before. Lansdale tol

me, but I made him promise to drop it. I

sn't that I wouldn't accept help fro



Bartrow as willingly as I would from an

one in the world; it is simply that I don

care to take the chance of addin

ngratitude to my other ill-doings."

"Ingratitude?"

"Yes. The man who allows his friend

o help him in any crisis of his ow

making should at least be able to giv

bond for his good behavior. I can't do tha

now. I wouldn't trust myself to go acroshe street. I know my own potentiality fo

evil too well."

"But potentiality isn't evil," sh

protested. "It's only the power to d

hings, good or bad. And if one have tha

here is always hope."



"Not for me," he said shortly. "I hav

sinned against grace."

"Who hasn't?" Constance rejoined"But grace doesn't die because it's sinne

against."

He smiled again at that. "I think m

particular allotment of grace is dea

beyond the hope of resurrection."

"How can that be?"

He put his back to the window so tha

he had not to look in her eyes.

"Grace for most men takes the form oan ideal. So long as the condition to b

attained is ahead there is hope, but whe

one has turned his back upon it"—



Indirection fences badly with open

eyed sincerity, and he did not finish. Bu

he door was open now, and Constanc

meant to do her whole duty.

"I think I understand," she assented

"but I wish you would be quite frank wit

me. In a way, I am Mr. Bartrow's deputyand if I have to tell him you refuse to le

him help you, I shall have to give him

better reason than you have given me."

"You are inexorable," he said, and

here was love in his eyes, despite hi

efforts reasonward. "I wish I dared tel

you the whole miserable truth."

"And why may you not?"

"Because it concerns—a woman."



She shrank back a little at that, and h

saw that she had misunderstood

Wherefore he plunged recklessly into th

pool of frankness.

"The woman is a good woman," h

went on quickly, "and one day not so very

ong ago I loved her well enough tbelieve that I could win my way back t

decency and uprightness for her sake. I

was a mistake. I had fallen lower than

knew, and the devil came in for his own."

Here was something tangible to la

hold of at last, and Connie made instan

use of it.

"Does she know?" she asked.

The mirthless smile came and wen



again. "She thinks she does."

"But you haven't told her all; is that it?

"I have tried to, but, being a goowoman, she can't understand. I think

didn't fully understand, myself; but I d

now."

"Is it so far beyond reparation?"

"It is indeed. If the devil's emissar

who has brought me to this pass could bexorcised this moment I should neve

recover the lost ground of self-respect

There is nothing to go back to. If I had no

o be despicable from necessity, I shoulddoubtless be so from choice."

"I think you are harder with yoursel

han you would be with another. Can't yo



begin to believe in yourself again?

believe in you."

"You!—but you don't know what youare saying, Miss Elliott. See!"—his coa

was buttoned to the chin, tramp-wise, an

he tore it open to show her the rags tha

underlay it—"do you understand now? have pawned the shirt off my back—not t

satisfy the cravings of hunger, but to feed

baser passion than that of the mos

avaricious miser that ever lived. Do make it plain that I am not worthy of you

sympathy, or of Richard Bartrow's?"

For once the clear gray eyes werveiled, and her chin quivered a little whe

she spoke. "You hurt me more than I can

ell," she said.



The dull rage of self-abasement in hi

flamed into passion at the sight of what h

had done, but the bitter speech of it tarrie

at the sound of a heavy step on the stairConstance rose from her seat in th

window embrasure with a nervous thril

of embarrassment, but Jeffard relieved he

at once. There was a vacant room on thopposite side of the corridor, and whe

he intruder appeared at the stair-head

Miss Elliott was alone.

She glanced at the man as he passed

and Jeffard, from his place behind th

half-closed door of the vacant room, saw

her draw back, and clenched his handand swore softly, because, forsooth, sh

had for some fleeting pulse-beat of time t

breathe the same air with the intruder. Fo



he knew the man as a purveyor for Pete

Grim's house of dishonor; a base thing fo

which wholesome speech has no name.

What followed was without sequence

Almost at the same instant the footsteps o

he man ceased to echo in the empt

corridor, there was a cry half angry andhalf of terror from Margaret Gannon'

room, and Miss Elliott disappeared fro

Jeffard's limited field of vision. In th

urning of a leaf Jeffard was at the door ohe room in the end of the corridor. Wha

he saw and heard made a man of him fo

he moment. Margaret Gannon ha

evidently been surprised at her sewingmachine; the work was still under th

needle, and the chair was overturned

Margaret was crouching in the farthes



corner of the room, with Miss Ellio

standing over her like a small guardia

angel at bay. The nameless one had hi

back to the door, and Jeffard heard onlhe conclusion of a jeering insult whic

ncluded both of the women.

Now Jeffard had fasted for twenty-fouhours, and the quick dash to the end of th

corridor made him dizzy and faint; but re

wrath, so it be fierce enough, is its ow

elixir. Thinking of nothing but that hshould acquit himself as a man before th

woman he loved, he flung himself upon th

contemner of women with the vigor of

righteous cause singing in his veins likhe wine of new life.

The struggle was short and decisive. I

his college days Jeffard had been a man o



his hands, and the fierce onset proved t

be the better half of the battle. Constanc

caught her breath and cowered in th

corner with Margaret when the two mewent down together, but she gave a glad

ittle cry when she saw that Jeffard ha

won the fall; that he had wrenched th

drawn pistol from the other's grasp anflung it harmless across the room. The

here was another and a fiercer grapple o

he floor, and Jeffard's fist rose and fel

ike a blacksmith's hammer with th

dodging head of his antagonist for it

anvil.

The end of it was as abrupt as thbeginning. In the midst of anothe

wrestling bout the beaten one free

himself, bounded to his feet, and darte



nto the corridor with Jeffard at his heels

There was a sharp scurry of racing feet i

he hall, a prolonged crash as of a heav

body falling down the stair, and Jeffardwas back again, panting with the violenc

of it, but with eyes alight and an apolog

on his lips.

Constance ran to meet him and cut th

apology short.

"The idea!" she protested; "when iwas for Margaret's sake and mine! Ar

you sure you're not hurt?"

Jeffard's knuckles were cut an

bleeding, but he kept that hand behind him

"It's the other fellow who is hurt,

hope." Then to Margaret: "Do you know



him? Are you afraid of him?"

Margaret glanced at Constance an

hesitated. "He'll not be troubling me anmore, I'm thinking. It's Pete Grim that sen

him; and he was at me before I knew."

Jeffard picked up the captured weapo

and put it on the sewing-machine.

"Take that to him if he comes again

when you are alone. Miss Elliott, pleas

stay here a moment until I can go dow

and see that the way is clear."

He was gone at the word, but he ha

barely reached the window with the dustembrasure when she overtook him. Ther

was a sweet shyness in her manner now

and he trembled as he had not in any stag



of the late encounter.

"Mr. Jeffard," she began, "will yo

forgive me if I say that you havdisproved all the hard things you wer

rying to say of yourself? You'll let me

wire Dick, now, won't you?"

He shook his head because he wa

afraid to trust himself to speak. A

between an abject appeal with hi

hopeless passion for its motive, and plunge back into the abyss of degradatio

which would efface the temptation, ther

was nothing to choose.

"You will at least promise me that you

will consider it," she went on. "I can't as

ess."



If he did not reply immediately it wa

because he was trying to fix her image s

hat he should always be able to think o

her just as she stood, with the afternoosunlight falling upon her face, irradiatin

t and making a shimmering halo of th

red-brown hair and deep wells of th

clear gray eyes. A vagrant thought came tohim: that it was worth a descent into th

nether depths to have such a woman see

him out and plead with him for his soul'

sake. He put it aside to deny her entreaty.

"I can't promise even that."

She was silent for a moment, anembarrassment came back and fought fo

holding-ground when she tried to brin

herself to do the thing which compassio

suggested. But compassion won; an



Jeffard looked on with a half-cynica

smile when she took a gold coin from he

purse and offered it to him.

"Just for the present," she begged, wit

a beseeching look which might hav

melted a worse man.

He took the money, and the smil

ended in an unpleasant laugh.

"You think I ought to refuse, and so

ought; as any man would who had a spar

of manhood left in him. But that is why

ake it; I have been trying to make yo

understand that I am not worth saving. D

make it plain to you?"

"You make me very sorry," she

quavered; and because her sorrow



hrottled speech, she turned and left him.



CHAPTER X

After Constance had gone, Jeffard ha

an exceedingly bad half-hour. For a tim

he tramped up and down the deserte

corridor, calling himself hard names and

ikening his latest obliquity to whatsoeve

unpardonable sin has been recorde

against the most incorrigible of mankindLove had its word, also—outraged love

acknowledged only to be openly floute

and spat upon; for one may neither d

violence to a worthy passion, nor givrein to an unworthy, without paying for it

blow for blow. What would she think o

him? What could she think, save that sh

had wasted her sympathy on a shameles



vagabond who had sought to palm himsel

off on her and her friends as a gentleman?

The thought of it was stifling. The aiof the musty hallway seemed suddenly t

grow suffocating, and the muffle

drumming of the sewing-machine i

Margaret Gannon's room jarred upon hiuntil it drove him forth to wander hot

hearted and desperate in the streets.

Without remembering that he hadcrossed the viaduct or ascended the hil

he finally found himself wandering in th

Highlands. Drifting aimlessly on beyon

he fringe of suburban houses, he came the borders of a shallow pond what tim

he sun was poising for its plunge behin

he upreared mountain background in th

west. It was here, when he had flun



himself down upon the warm brown eart

n utter weariness of soul and body, tha

his good angel came once more an

wrestled with him.

Looking backward he saw that th

angle of the inclined plane had grow

suddenly precipitous within a fortnighSince the night of his quarrel with th

well-meaning miner, the baize door at th

head of the carpeted stair had been close

o him. In consequence he had been driveo the lair of a less carefully groomed bu

more rapacious wild beast whose keepe

offered his patrons a choice between th

more serious business of the gamingables, and the lighter diversions of

variety theatre. Jeffard had seen th

nterior of the Bijou on the earliest of hi



nvestigative expeditions in Denver, and

had gone away sick at heart at the sight o

t. Wherefore it was a measure of th

depths to which he had descended that hcould become an habitue of the place

caring nothing for the misery an

depravity which locked arms with all wh

breathed its tainted atmosphere.

It was at the Bijou that he had lost th

better part of the winnings rescued by th

miner's bit of charitable by-play; and iwas there, also, that he had thrown awa

he major portion of a second gift fro

Lansdale. For two nights in succession th

ack of money had kept him away.

He took out Connie's offering an

stared at it with lack-lustre eyes. Wit

heedful manipulation here was the fuel t



feed the fire of his besetting passion fo

some hours. Having permitted her to giv

and himself to take it, why should h

quibble at the manner of its spendingWhen he saw that hesitancy implie

another attempt to turn back at the elevent

hour, he felt that this was no longe

possible. Try as he might, the shame ohis last infamous thing would reach ou

and drag him back into the mire.

The alternative disposed of, the mattesimplified itself. He had only to determin

whether he should end it all before o

after he had flung away this bit of yellow

metal. The decision was so nicelbalanced that he let it turn upon th

flipping of the coin—heads for a sudde

plunge into the pond, tails for a final bou



with chance and the plunge afterward.

He spun the gold piece, and went dow

on his hands and knees to read the oracln the fading light. It was the misshape

eagle that stared back at him from the fac

of the coin, and he took his repriev

sullenly, calling his evil genius a usurer.

He got upon his feet stiffly and turne

his face toward the city. Then it occurred

o him that it would be well to make hipreparations while he could see. Ther

was a house building on the little knol

above the pond; a brick and the binding

string from a bundle of lath would serveand when he had secured them he sounde

he pond around the edges with a stick. I

was too shallow; but from a plank throw

across to the head of the drainage flume i



proved deep enough, and here he left th

brick and the bit of tarred twine.

Half an hour later he entered the BijouOn the threshold he met the proprietor

and when he would have passed with

nod, Grim barred the way.

"Been layin' for you," announced th

man of vice, sententiously. "Come into th

box-office."

Jeffard obeyed mechanically. He wa

n the semi-stupor which anticipates th

delirium of the gaming fever, and th

man's voice sounded afar off. Grim led th

way behind the bar to a windowless de

furnished with a roll-top desk and tw

chairs. Closing the door, he waved Jeffard

o a seat.



"Been sort o' sizin' you up lately, and

put it up that you're out o' luck. Does tha

call the turn?"

"I don't know how that concerns you,

said Jeffard, with a sudden access of dul

resentment.

"No more do I; but that's neither her

nor yonder. You're down on your luck

ain't you?"

Jeffard nodded. "Call it that, if yo

ike."

"Thought so. Broke most of the time,

reckon?"

"Yes; most of the time."

"Jes' so. Well, I'm goin' to put you on



o a soft snap. I know all about you—wh

you are, where you come from, and all th

rest. You've been playin' to lose righ

along, and now I'm goin' to give you a tipso you can play to win ever' time. See?"

Jeffard came out of his abstractio

sufficiently to wonder what the man wadriving at. "Make it short," he rejoine

curtly.

Grim leaned back in his pivot-chairand his hard face wrinkled under an evi

smile.

"Don't be in a rush. Game runs al

night, and you'll have plenty of time to g

and blow in whatever you've got after

get through with you. Or, if you can't wait

go and blow it first, and we'll tal



business afterwards."

"No," Jeffard objected sullenly. "If yo

have anything to say to me, say it now.""Business before pleasure, eh? Al

right; here's the lay-out. I'm goin' to stak

you with a suit o' good clothes, pay you

board at the Albany or the Brown

whichever you like, and give you a roll t

flash up that'll make you feel flush ever

ime you look at it. Then"—

Jeffard's gesture was of impatience.

"Never mind about the details. What i

he price of all this?"

"Mighty nigh nothin' at all. You had

plenty o' friends a while back, and you'l

have 'em again, as soon as you're flush



And when any of 'em feel like proddin' th

agger, why—you know where he's kep

hat's all."

While one might draw a breath ther

was murder in Jeffard's heart; in hi

weakness a rage that was childish in it

vehemence took possession of him, and hcovered his face with his hands to crus

back the hot tears of impotence whic

sprang up and blinded him. Grim looke

on unpityingly, waiting for what hconceived to be the inevitable. Whe

Jeffard struggled to his feet, his face wa

white and he had to steady himself by th

back of the chair.

"I thought I'd got to the bottom when

came here to-night," he began unsteadily

"but you've shown me my mistake. Than



God, I can yet say No to you, low as I am

Let me get out of here."

Knowing the strength of the gambler'chain, as well as the length thereof, Gri

held his peace; and Jeffard pushed past th

bar-tender and went out through the smal

door at the end of the bar. On the sidewala crowd beset the theatre entrance, and ou

of the midst of it came two men, strikin

and clutching at each other as they fough

heir way into the clear. Within arm'sength of Jeffard they separated. He saw

he sheen of the electric light on a weapon

and darted between them in time to spoi

he aim of the man who drew first. Therwas a flash and a report, a rush on the par

of the crowd, and Jeffard found himsel

dodging and doubling swiftly through dar



alleys and crooked covered ways

following the lead of the man whose lif

he had saved. After a time they came ou

n a silent street where there was light.

"Didn't know me, did you, pardner?

quoth the fugitive, relaxing his grasp o

Jeffard's wrist. "Like as not you wouldna' done it if you had, but that don't saw n

wood with me. That greaser had the dro

on me, sure's yer born."

Whereupon Jeffard looked again, an

recognizing his friendly enemy of th

winning night, was glad, inasmuch as h

had been able to cancel an obligationone the less, his reply was ungraciou

enough.

"Oh, it's you, is it? Well, we're quit



now. Good-night."

He turned and walked away, but at th

corner the man overtook him. "Not that-away," he forbade, pointing up the street

"Somebody in the crowd'll be sure t

know you, and you'll walk slap back int

rouble after I done drug you out. Thp'lice are there by this time, an' they don

care who, so they get a man 'r two to loc

up."

Jeffard nodded, and made a circuit o

he dangerous locality with his head u

and the light of a steadfast purpose in hi

eyes. Whatever of vacillation there was ihim an hour earlier had been thoroughl

flailed out in the brief interview wit

Peter Grim. He knew now what he had t

do, and the precise manner of its doing.



Keeping to the quieter streets, he cam

out in front of the St. James; and dodgin

he crowded lobby, made his way to th

writing-room. Since he dare not go to thclerk for stationery, he was compelled to

wait until some one left what he required

The chance befell presently, but when h

came to write his note to Constance Elliohe thing was harder to do than he ha

prefigured it. What he finally wrote, afte

he had spoiled two of the three sheets o

paper left by his predecessor in the chai

at the writing-table, was this:—

"After what happened this afternoon

you will not think worse of me if I ask yoo let me try to explain what must seem t

you too despicable to be remembered.

can't hope to make you understand withou



being frank, and when, at some futur

ime, you may learn the circumstance

under which this is written, I shall hop

for forgiveness.

"You may remember that I said

couldn't tell you the truth, because i

concerns a woman. When I add that thwoman is yourself, you will understand.

ove you; I think I have been loving yo

ever since that evening which you said w

were to forget—the evening at the theatreStrangely enough, my love for you isn

strong in the strength which saves. I wen

from you that night when you had bidde

me God-speed at Mrs. Calmaine's, anwithin the hour I was once more

penniless vagabond.

"When you were trying to help me thi



afternoon, I was trying to keep from sayin

hat which I could never have a right t

say. You pressed me very hard in your

sweet innocence and loving sympathy,—you see, I am quite frank,—and when yo

finally gave me a chance to make th

mpossible thing that I longed to say stil

more impossible, I took it in sheedesperation. Nay, more; I purposed in m

heart to so desecrate your gift as to mak

he thought of my love for you a

unhallowed memory.

"That is all, I think, save, when it cam

o the brink, I found that there was still

deeper depth which was yet unplumbedand which I trust I shall have the courag

o leave unexplored."

When it was finished he wrapped th



gold piece in a bit of paper, and, putting i

n the envelope with the note, set out t

find the house in Colfax Avenue. Having

seen it but once, and that in daylight, iwas not singular that it eluded him in th

night; but it was surely the very irony o

chance which led him to slip the envelop

under the front door of a house twsquares beyond that occupied by th

Elliotts, and which kept him from noticin

he placard "For Rent" nailed upon th

very door under which he thrust hi

message to Constance.

This single preliminary set in order, h

faced once more toward the Highlandsagging a little from sheer weariness as h

went, but finding comfort in the though

hat there would be infinite surcease fro



hunger and exhaustion at the end of thi

ast pilgrimage.

There was time for reflection on thway, and he marvelled that his thought

dwelt so persistently upon the trivia

details of the thing he was about to do. H

was a practiced swimmer; would thweight of a single brick be sufficient t

overcome the instinct of self-preservatio

which might assert itself at the las

moment? Probably, since he was weafrom fasting, and would be encumbere

with his clothing. Then another suggestio

came to torment him: If he should tie th

brick to his feet, as he had thought to, thwater might not be deep enough, after al

Consequently, he must fasten it about hi

neck. And thereupon he had a fit o



creeping horror at the thought of drownin

with his face dragged down into the ooz

and slime of the bottom.

Oddly enough, when he came to th

brink of the pool these things ceased t

rouble him; though even there it wa

mpossible to turn the current of thoughnto a reflective channel. He made th

effort for decency's sake. It was not mee

hat a thinking being should go out of lif

ike the brutes that perish; without hought for the past with its lacks an

havings, or the future with its untrie

possibilities. But the effort returned to hi

void, and presently he stumbled upon threason: the premeditated fact of self

murder shut him off alike from repentanc

for what had gone before, and from hop



n what should come after.

Very good, he said; and flung himsel

down to make the most of the present. Hwas faint and weary, and it would be ill to

drown a tired body. There was no moon

but the midsummer night was clear an

still. The stars burned steadily overheadand there was a soft light abroad whic

seemed to be a part of the atmosphere

Over in the west the black bulk of th

range rose up to meet the sky; and poiseabove one of the highest peaks the plane

Mars swung to its setting. Jeffard marke

t, saying it should be his executioner; tha

when the rosy point of light should touche black sky-line, he would rise up an

go to his place.

Meanwhile it was soothing to li



stretched out upon the warm earth with n

human future to prefigure, and no pas

nsistent enough to disturb one with it

annals. And there was still the presentwith its soft light and its dim hemispher

of sky; its balmy air and its vague an

shadowy horizon. It was good to be alon

with nature in these last few moments; thave done with the tiresome world o

man's marring; to be quit of man'

presence.

The thought had scarcely shaped itsel

when it was made of none effect by th

appearance of a man at the top of the littl

knoll. The intruder came straight on, as in no doubt as to his purpose, and sittin

down on the end of the plank bridge

proceeded to fill and light his pip



without saying a word. Jeffard caught

glimpse of a bearded face by the flare o

he match, and said, "Oh, it's you again, i

t?"

"Right you are, pardner. Hope I ain

ntrudin'."

"I suppose you have as good a righ

here as I have. But I might suggest that th

night is fine and the world large, and tha

here are times when a man has no use fohis fellows."

The new-comer smoked in silence fo

a full minute before he removed his pip

o say:—

"That's a sort of a gilt-edged invitatio

for me to mog off, ain't it? All right; I'll go



pretty middlin' quick; but I've been foo

enough to tramp somewheres nigh ten mil

behind you to-night for to get a show t

say what's on my mind; wher'fore, I'll sat first and vamoose afte'wards."

Jeffard gave him leave, watching th

narrowing margin between the star and thmountain-top.

"Well, b'iled down, it's just about this

know what you're out yere for,—seen in your eye back yonder on the stree

corner,—but I says to myself, 'Jim Garvin

you go kinder slow; it ain't none o' you

business. When a man takes a mill-run ohisself and finds out the claim ain't wort

workin' no longer, w'y, it's his funeral, an

none o' yourn.' And then again I says to

myself, 'Maybe that there feller hain't go



nary 'nother claim—leastwise, not as h

knows of,' and so I follered you, all ove

he blame' town and out yere."

Jeffard made no reply, and the intrude

went on.

"'Course, you understand I ain't a

mixin' up any in your business, not if

know it. You just listen at what I'm goin

o say, and then if you want to go ahead

w'y, all right, do it; and I'll loan you mgun so 't you won't have to get yoursel

wet in cold water. Is that about right?"

"Go on," said Jeffard.

"Well, it's this-a-way; I'm off on a

prospectin' tower to-morrow. Blowed i

ever' last thing I had, and took a grub



stake, same as heretofore. Now the ol

man that puts up the grub-stake, he says

says he, 'Jim, you'll want a pardner. It'

gettin' pretty late in the season, and yowon't stand no kind of a chance goin

alone.' 'Right you are,' says I,' and I'll pic

up some feller on the range as I go in

Good enough,' says he. 'I'll make this herorder big enough to stake the two of you

That's the whole lay-out, and you're th

pardner, if you say the word. You don'

know beans about me, and I don't know

you from Adam's off ox, so that's a stand

off. What do you say?"

Jeffard did not answer until there wabut a bare thread of sky between the sta

and the peak. Then he said: "Do yo

happen to have a coin of any kind abou



you?"

Garvin tossed a dollar across to him

and Jeffard spun it. Then he found that hhad no match, and asked the miner to giv

him one. Garvin watched him curiously a

he bent over the coin and struck the match

"The luck's against me—it's heads," h

announced gravely. "I'll go with you."

Garvin rose and stretched himsel

stiffly.

"You're a cool one," he commented

"What if it'd been tails?"

Jeffard got up and kicked the brick int

he pond. "In that case I should have bee

obliged to ask you to lend me your pistol

Let's go back to town and get something t



eat with that dollar. I haven't had anythin

since last night."



CHAPTER XI

After toiling all night through blac

gorges and over unspeakable mountai

passes, the narrow-gauge train fro

Denver, headed by two pygm

ocomotives, came out into daylight

sunshine, and wider horizons at Alt

Vista. In the sleeping-car three sectionhad been transformed by the drows

porter into daytime smugness, and thre

persons—two of them in deference to th

enthusiasm of the third—were up andressed.

"Isn't it all perfectly indescribable?

Myra was saying, when the engineer o



one of the pygmies sounded the whistle fo

he station. "Do you know, I couldn't go to

sleep for hours last night, late as it was.

put up the window curtain and piled thpillows in the corner so I could look ou

The sky was like a great inverted bow

ined with black velvet and spangled wit

diamonds, circling around us as we dartearound the curves. And in the open place

here was always a solemn procession o

cliffs and peaks, marching with u

sometimes, and then turning to slip pas

again when the bowl whirled the othe

way. Oh, but it was grand!"

"I'm glad it lays hold of you," saiConnie, who was loyally jealous for th

scenic renown of her native Colorado

"Now you know why I wouldn't let you g



on any of those breathless little one-da

excursions from Denver. They just tak

you up in a balloon, give you a glimps

while you gasp, and drop you without parachute. The tourist people all mak

hem, you know,—it's in the itinerary, wit

a coupon in the cute little morocco-boun

book of tickets,—and they come bacwild-eyed and desperate, and go withou

heir suppers to scribble incoherent note

about the 'Cache la Platte' and 'Clea

Poudre Canyon,' and other ridiculou

hings. It would be funny if it wasn't s

exasperating."

Myra nodded. "I'm beginning to 'savezas Mr. Bartrow would say. By the way

sn't this the place where he was to mee

us?—Why, yes; there he is now!" Sh



waved her hand and struggled with th

window-latch as the train drew up to th

platform.

He was with them in a momen

carrying a towel-covered basket, and a ti

coffee-pot which he waved gingerly b

way of salutation.

"The top o' the morning to you all," h

said, beaming genially. "I was afraid you

wouldn't be up, and then my hot coffewould be cold coffee, and I'd get mysel

disliked." Then to the drowsy porter

"John, you scoundrel, get us a table befor

break you in two and throw you out ohe window."

The table was promptly forthcoming

and Myra made room in the narrow sea



for Bartrow.

"Excuse me," he begged, laughing, "I'

ike to, but I can't. Somebody's got to stanup and do the swing-rack act with thi

coffee-pot. Just unload that basket, wil

you, Elliott, and I'll play head waite

while you set the table."

The breakfast was good, and there wa

a most astonishing variety. Moreover th

coffee rose to a degree of excellencwhich more than atoned for the admixtur

of condensed milk in lieu of cream, an

for the slight resinous taste imparted b

he new tin cups. Bartrow apologized fohe cups.

"You see, I left the mine rathe

middling early this morning, and packe



hings in a hurry. When I was making th

coffee over Jim Bryant's stove here at Alt

Vista, it struck me all at once that I'd

forgotten the cups. The train was in sightand Jim had only one, and that hadn't bee

washed for a month of Sundays. Mayb

you think I wasn't stampeded for about

minute."

Connie laughed. "I suppose you wen

out and robbed somebody."

"That's what I did; made a break for th

store, and found it locked up, of course.

had to smash a window to get what

wanted."

"Why, you lawless man!" protested

Myra, trying to make room on the narrow

able for the contents of the inexhaustibl



basket. "Where in the world did you ge

such a variety of things?"

"Canned goods," Connie cut imaliciously; "all canned goods, put out i

dishes so you won't be reminded of th

inny taste. Everybody lives on canne

goods in the mountains."

"Connie, you make me tired," Bartrow

retorted, bracing himself as the trai

whisked around a sharp curve. "Just dig ittle deeper and get out that platter o

rout; they've never seen the inside of

can."

"Never mind what Connie says; sh

sn't responsible," said Myra. "Th

breakfast is just as good as it can be

Besides, you know you promised us tha



we should live just as you do if we'd visi

he Little Myriad. I wish you'd put tha

coffee-pot on the floor and sit down wit

us."

Bartrow tried it, and found it possible

after which the talk became general an

cheerful over the resinous coffee cups anhe lurching dishes. In a lull Elliott aske

how the Little Myriad was going on.

"Good enough for anybody," rejoinedBartrow, with enthusiasm alert. "Lead

opens out better every day, and we're i

only about seventy-five feet."

"No pay-dirt yet, of course," said th

older man.

"Well, hardly; not yet. I'm figuring on a



hundred and fifty feet of developmen

work at the very least before we begin t

ake out pay."

"Mr. Bartrow, don't you remember tha

another thing you promised was that yo

wouldn't talk mineral-English before m

without explaining it?" Myra broke in. "want to know"—An unexpected plunge o

he car made her grasp at the coffee cup

and Connie slipped deftly into the break.

"And it shall know, bless it

nquisitive little soul! It shall be stuffe

with information like a fat little pillow

with feathers. But not here, cuzzy dearWait till we're on the ground, and then I'l

go off out of hearing, and Dick may tur

himself into a glossary, or an intelligenc

office, or a personal conductor, o



anything else you'd like to have him."

Bartrow looked unspeakable things

and put down his knife and fork to say"Connie, you're a—a"—

"Brute, Dickie; say it right out, an

don't spare me on Myra's account. Sh

rather enjoys it; she loves to hear peopl

abuse me."

"Connie, you are perfectl

ncorrigible," said Myra severely. "With

your poor people you are an angel of ligh

but with your friends"—

"I'm an angel of darkness. That's rightcuzzy dear; pile it on, I'm young an

strong. Poppa, can't you think of somethin

mean to say about me? Do try, please."



Bartrow grinned; and Elliott, wh

knew his daughter's vagaries an

delighted in them, laughed outrigh

Constance made a face across the table aher cousin, and said, "Now talk mines, i

you can."

"I shall," asserted Myra calmly. "MrBartrow, how did you ever come to cal

your mine the 'Little Myriad'?"

If the bottom had suddenly dropped ouof his coffee cup, Bartrow could not hav

been more disconcerted. Constance, wh

was in his secret, laughed gleefully, and

clapped her hands.

"Tell her, Dick; tell her all about it. I

you don't I shall."



Bartrow stammered and stumbled unti

Connie went into ecstasies of mischievou

delight. After two or three helples

beginnings, he said, rather tamely, "hought it was a pretty name."

"But it's so odd; a myriad is many, and

a mine is only one."

"Oh, the meaning didn't have anythin

o do with it," rejoined Bartrow, goin

straight to his own discomfiture witrefreshing candor. "It was the—th

suggestion; the similarity; the—By Jove

we're there at last; this is the min

switch."

The exclamation was a heartfel

hanksgiving, and in the confusion o

debarking the perilous topic was safel



eluded. It was a sharp climb of som

distance from the railway track to th

mine, and Elliott developed unsuspecte

reserves of tact by leading the way witMiss Van Vetter, leaving Bartrow to

follow with Constance. When they ha

agged sufficiently behind the others, an

were yet out of earshot of the men whwere following with the luggage, Bartrow

went back to the unexploded petard.

"Connie, you've just got to help me ounow," he declared. "What shall I tell her i

she tackles me again?"

"Tell her the truth."

"I don't dare to."

"Then tell her a fib. But no—on secon



hought I shouldn't do that, if I were you

you'd only make a mess of it. I'll tell yo

what to do: just fight shy of it till I can ge

her to myself. I promise you she'll neveask you about the Little Myriad'

christening again as long as she lives."

"Thank you," said Bartrow, with the aiof a reprieved criminal; and the

dubiously: "See here, Connie, how ar

you going to do it? No monkey business

you know."

"Not a single, solitary monkey," sh

answered so soberly that Bartrow forgo

his suspicions, and plunged into anothesubject which was also near to his heart.

"About Jeffard; how did you come t

hink he had shot himself?"



"It was only one of those supposition

you think you have verified when you'v

only been playing blind-man's bluff wit

t. The similarity of names misled me afirst."

"But afterward you merely wired tha

you were mistaken. Was that anothesupposition?"

"Oh, no; I saw him and talked wit

him."

"The mischief you did! What did h

have to say for himself?"

"Not much that will bear repeating. I'oo sorry for him to want to talk about it

Dick."

Bartrow wondered, and kept hi



wonder to himself. What he said was i

he nature of worldly wisdom.

"Jeffard'll come out all right in the endHe's as obstinate as a pig, but that's th

only swinish thing about him. I'm afrai

he'll have to go through the stamp-mill an

get himself pulverized; but when it comeo the clean-up there'll be more goo

metal than tailings. Don't you think so?"

"How should I know?" querieConstance.

"I didn't ask you what you know;

asked what you thought about it."

"You forget that we've met only two o

hree times."

"I don't forget anything. But I know yo



can size a man up while the rest of us ar

rying to get acquainted with him. Don

you believe that Jeffard will come out al

right in the end?"

She was silent for a minute or two, an

when she answered there was a tremulou

note in her voice which was new tBartrow.

"I'm afraid he has made that an

everything else impossible, Dick. I tolyou I had seen him and talked with him

hat was the day after I telegraphed yo

about the suicide, nearly two months ago

From that day to this he has not been seeor heard of in Denver, so far as Tommie

can find out."

"Pshaw! Then you think he has take



he short cut out of it, after all?"

"I don't know what to think," sai

Constance; and as they were at the top ohe steep trail, the subject was dropped.

On the whole, Connie's apprehension

hat her cousin's urban upbringing migh

make her a difficult guest for the youn

miner were apparently groundless. Mis

Van Vetter rhapsodized over the scenery

waded cheerfully through the drippinunnel of the Little Myriad to the ver

heading, in order to see with her own eye

he vein of mineral; thought Bartrow'

hree-room log cabin was good enough foany one; and ate the dishes of Wun Ling'

preparing as though a Chinese cook wer

a necessary adjunct to every wel

regulated household. When the first day o



exhilarating sight-seeing came to an end

and the two young women were togethe

n their room, Connie bethought her of he

promise to Bartrow.

"By the way, Myra, did you find ou

how the Little Myriad came by its name?

she asked.

"No; I forgot to ask Mr. Bartrow

again."

"I can tell you, if you'd really like t

know."

"Well?"

"He was going to call it the 'Myra,' an

he asked me if I thought you'd object.

old him you would,—most emphatically

Then he said he would call it the 'Myriad



because that was the only word he coul

hink of that was anything like Myra."

Miss Van Vetter was arranging her hairbefore the small mirror at the other end o

he room, and Constance waited long fo

her rejoinder. When it came it was rathe

rrelevant.

"I've heard of people who could rea

your thoughts better than you could thin

hem," she said; and Connie was tosleepy to strike back.



CHAPTER XII

For a week after the arrival of hi

visitors, Bartrow had scant time and les

nclination for troublement about suc

purely mundane affairs as the driving o

unnels and the incidental acquisition o

wealth thereby. There were burro

ourneys to the top of the pass, and to thsheer cliff known to the prosai

frontiersmen as the devil's jumping-off

place; excursions afoot down the mountai

o the cool depths of Chipeta Canyon, ano Silver Lake beyond the shrugge

shoulder of Lost Creek Mountain; an

finally there was a breath-cutting climb t

he snow-patched summit of El Reposo



undertaken for the express purpose o

enabling Myra Van Vetter to say that she

had been where there was reason t

presume that no human being hapreceded her.

These things three of them did, leavin

Stephen Elliott to his own devices, iaccordance with the set terms upon whic

he had consented to father the parti carré

"Go on and climb your mountains and jus

eave me out," he would say, when thpreparations were making for the day'

aunt. "I've had my share of it, off and on

while I was hunting for something I hadn

ost. Dick, here, hasn't any better senshan to humor you; but you'd tramp might

ittle if I had to go along."

Whereupon he would plant his chai



for the day upon the slab-floored porch o

he cabin, tilt it to a comfortable angl

against the wall, and while away the hour

smoking a mellow pipe and reading thday-old Denver paper painstakingly, fro

he top of the title page to the bottom of th

ast want column.

Thus the crystalline autumn day

winged their flight, and Bartrow squire

he two young women hither and yon, an

finally to the top of El Reposo, arecorded. This excursion was the climax

from a scenic point of view; and Myra

having long since exhausted he

vocabulary of superlatives, was unusuallsilent.

"What's come over you? are yo

gorged with mountains?" queried Conni



sympathetically, slipping her arm around

her cousin's waist.

"It isn't that; it's just that I'm too full foutterance, I think; or perhaps I should sa

oo empty of words to do it justice. How

flippantly trivial everything human seem

n the face of such a landscape! Here arwe, three inconsequent atoms, standin

brazenly in the face of great nature, an

rying to gather some notion of the infinit

nto our finite little souls. It's sheempertinence."

"They won't mind," rejoined Bartrow

with a comprehensive gesture, meant tnclude the mountains, singular an

collective; "they're used to it—th

mpertinence, I mean. What you see is th

face of nature, as you say, and man doesn



seem to be in it. Just the same, there is

small army of men scattered among thes

overgrown hills, each with an inquisitiv

pick and shovel, backed by hardihooenough to dare anything for the sake o

adding something to the wealth of th

world."

Myra turned her back on the prospec

and searched Bartrow's eyes in a way t

make him wonder what was wrong wit

his well-turned little speech.

"That is the first insincere thing I eve

heard you say," she asserted. "As if you

didn't know that not one of these men evewastes a second thought upon the world o

he people in it, or upon anything outsid

of his own little circle of ambitions an

cravings!"



"You're quite right," admitted Bartrow

abashed and more than willing to stan

corrected in any field entered by Miss Va

Vetter; but Constance took up the cudgelon the other side.

"You make me exceedingly weary, you

wo," she said, with seraphic sweetness"Neither of you knows what you ar

alking about half the time, and when yo

do, it isn't worth telling. Now listen to m

while I show you how ridiculous yoare,"—Bartrow sat down on a flat-toppe

boulder, and made a dumb show o

stopping his ears,—"I contend that nearl

every one of these poor prospectoryou've been maligning is a perfec

monument of unselfishness. He is workin

and starving and hoping and enduring fo



somebody else in nine cases out of ten. It'

a wife, or a family, or an old father o

mother, or the mortgage on the farm, o

some other good thing."

Myra made a snowball and threw it a

Connie the eloquent. "I think El Reposo i

misnamed," she contended. "It ought to bcalled the Mount of Perversity. Mr

Bartrow, you are sitting upon the table

which is very undignified. Please mov

and let us see what Wun Ling has stowedaway in the haversack."

They spread their luncheon on the flat

opped boulder, and fell upon it like thhungry wayfarers that they were, calling i

a sky banquet, and drinking Wun Ling'

health in a bottle of cold tea. With satiety

came thoughts of the descent, and Myr



pleaded piteously for a change of route.

"I shall never get down the way w

came up in the wide, wide world,—noalive," she asserted. "With the view i

prospect, I believe I could climb th

Matterhorn; but getting down is quit

another matter. Can't we go around somother way?"

Bartrow thought it possible; but sinc

Miss Van Vetter had particularly desiredo stand upon the summit of a hithert

unexplored peak, he was not sure.

"But we can try," said Myra. "At th

worst we can come back and creep dow

he way we came up."

Bartrow glanced at his watch, an



focused the field-glass on a diaphanou

cloud slipping stealthily across th

serrated summits of the main range awa

o the westward.

"Yes, we can do that, if we have time,

he assented. "But I'm a little afraid of th

weather. That cloud may miss us bwenty miles; and then again, it may take

straight shoot across the valley and mak

us very wet and uncomfortable."

Constance came to the rescue with

compromise.

"You go and prospect for a new trail

Dick, and we'll stay here. If you find on

you can come back for us, and if you don

we'll be fresh for the scramble down th

other way."



Bartrow said it was well, an

mmediately set about putting th

suggestion into effect. When he was fairl

out of sight over the curvature of EReposo's mighty shoulder, Myra said:—

"He's good, isn't he?"

"He is a man among men, Myra; a ma

o tie to, as we say here in Colorado."

They were sitting together on the fla

boulder, and Miss Van Vetter stole a side

glance at her cousin's profile. "You have

known him a long time, haven't you

Connie?"

"Almost ever since I can remember

'm Colorado-born, you know, and he isn't

but he came across the plains in the day



of the ox-teams, when he was a littl

fellow, and the first work he ever did wa

for poppa, when we lived on the ranc

below Golden."

"He is a self-made man, isn't he?"

"Don't say that, Myra, please. I hate th

word. God makes us, and circumstance

or our own foolishness mar us. But Dic

s self-educated, so far as he is educate

at all. He was a homeless waif when hfirst saw the Rockies. His father died i

he middle of the trip across the plains

and his mother lived only long enough t

have her grave dug some two hundremiles farther west. The others took care o

Dick and brought him along with them t

Colorado because there wasn't anythin

else to do; and since, Dick has made hi



own way, doing any honest thing that cam

o his hand."

"He couldn't do the other kind," Myraverred. "But you spoke of his educatio

as if he hadn't any. I suppose that was on

of your 'exuberances,' as Uncle Stephe

calls them. Mr. Bartrow is certainlanything but illiterate."

"No, he isn't that, though he has n

education of the kind you effete peoplhave in mind when you spell the wor

with a capital—the kind with a Greek

etter-badge and college-yell attachment

f you should tell him you had been tBryn Mawr, he would probably take it to

be some summer resort he hadn't heard of

But that isn't saying he is stupid. He coul

give the man with the yell a lot o



nformation on a good many subjects

Poppa says he was always an earnest littl

ad; always reading everything he coul

get hold of—which wasn't very much ihe early days, as you may imagine."

"Nevertheless, he seems to be gettin

on in the world," said Miss Van Vetter"Your father says the Little Myriad is a

promising mine."

There was more pathos than mirth ihe smile which flitted across Connie'

face.

"You're new among us yet, Myra

Everything with mineral in it is promisin

o us; we are cranks pure and simple, o

hat subject. The Little Myriad i

promising, of course,—there isn't a



unpromising mine in the State, for tha

matter,—but it's only a promise, as yet. I

Dick should reach the end of his hundre

and fifty feet of development withoustriking pay, he would be a ruined man."

"Why couldn't he keep on until h

should strike it?"

"For the very simple reason that he i

working on borrowed capital; and

happen to know that he has borroweabout all he can."

"But he believes in the success of th

venture, absolutely."

"Of course he does; that is one of th

conditions. It's merely a question of credi

with him. If any one would lend, Dic



would go on borrowing and digging unti

he struck pay-ore or came out on the othe

side of the mountain—and then he'd thin

he hadn't gone deep enough. That is thpathetic side of his character; he neve

knows when he's beaten."

"I should call it the heroic side."

"It is heroic, but it is pathetic, too. It i

sure to bring him trouble, sooner or later

and Dick isn't one to take trouble lightlyHe'll go on fighting and struggling lon

after the battle has become hopeless, an

hat makes the sting of defeat so muc

sharper. It makes me want to cry when hink what a terrible thing it would be fo

him if the Little Myriad should go back o

ts promise."



Miss Van Vetter took the field-glass

and stood up to watch the storm clou

which was now spreading gradually an

creeping slowly down the slopes of thdivide. "You think a great deal of Mr

Bartrow, don't you, Connie?"

"Indeed I do; he comes next to poppwith me."

For so long a time as one might take i

saying a little prayer at a needful crisisMyra gave her undivided attention to th

fleecy blur slipping down the side of th

main range. Then the strain on her eye

filled them with tears, and she put thglass back into its case. Constance saw

he tears.

"Why, Myra! you're crying. What is th



matter?"

"I'm lonesome and homesick, and

ong for the flesh-pots of Denver; but iwas the glass that made me cry. Connie

dear, don't you think we'd better be goin

back to town?"

"Why, yes; if you are quite ready. But i

will be a disappointment for Dick. He i

counting on another week, at least."

"Yes, I know; and that is why I think

we ought to go. We are keeping him from

his work in the mine, and his time i

precious."

"Rather more so than he gives us t

understand, I fancy," Constance assented

"I suppose you are right, Myra,—we ough



not to stay; but you'll have to tax you

ngenuity to find an excuse that will hol

water. Dick won't be satisfied with a P. P

C. card."

"Perhaps the chapter of accidents wil

help us. If it doesn't, you must make you

father remember that he has urgenbusiness in Denver which won't wai

Can't you manage it that way?"

"If I can't, I'll ring you in. Poppa woulake passage for Honolulu to-morrow if h

had an idea that you'd like to see th

Kanakas ride surf-boards."

"I should much rather not appear in it,

said Myra; and then, with truly feminin

nconsistency, "I don't know why I sa

hat. On the whole, perhaps you'd bette



say that it's my proposal. Then Mr

Bartrow will set it down to the vagarie

of a flighty migrant, and he won't hol

spite against his old friends."

Connie the wise began to wonder i

here were unplumbed depths in he

cousin,—depths which Bartrow'defenseless obviousness had stirred to hi

sparing; but she drove the thought out a

unworthy. Myra had been kind to Dick

certainly, but she had never encouragedhim. There might well be an accepte

over in the dim Philadelphia backgroun

for aught Myra had said or done to evinc

he contrary. In which case—Connie thwise became Connie the pitiful in th

urning of a leaf—poor Dick! At tha

moment, as if the sympathetic thought ha



evoked him, Bartrow came in sight on th

ower slope of the summit. He wa

breathing hard when he reached them.

"We can make it all right," he said

slinging the glass and the haversack, "bu

t'll add three or four miles. It's

roundabout way, and it will take us intohe head of Little Myriad Gulch. If you'r

ready we'll get a quick move. That stor

s heading straight for us, and we'll be i

uck if we don't come in for a soaking."

El Reposo is a bald mountain, and it

onsure is fringed with a heavy fores

growth which stops abruptly at timberine. Halfway to the head of the gulch th

new trail ended in a tangle of fallen trees

—the débris of an ancient snowslide,—

and much valuable time was lost i



skirting the obstacle. Bartrow glance

over his shoulder from time to time, an

finally said, "There it comes, with

vengeance!"

The exclamation was ill-timed. Myr

urned and stopped to watch the fleec

curtain of vapor shrouding the great balsummit they had just quitted. Bartrow

sought to possess his soul in patience.

"Isn't it grand!" she said, with kindlinenthusiasm.

"Yes; grand and wet. If you'll excuse

me, Miss Myra, I think we'd better run fo

t."

They ran for it accordingly, Connie in

he lead like the free-limbed daughter o



he altitudes that she was, and Bartrow

and Miss Van Vetter hand in hand like

oyous children for whom self

consciousness is not. From the beginninof the wild race down the slopes th

wetting seemed momentarily imminen

none the less, they managed to reach th

gulch dryshod. Inasmuch as their coursdown the ravine was in a direction nearl

opposite to the sweep of the wind, it soo

ook them beyond the storm zone, and the

stopped to listen to the echoes of nature'

battle reverberating from the crags of th

higher levels. The writhing of the grea

firs in the grasp of the wind came to theiears like the clashing of miniatur

breakers on a tideless shore; and th

booming of the thunder was minified b

he rare atmosphere into a sound no



unlike the distant firing of cannon. Whil

hey paused, Myra climbed to the top of

water-worn boulder in the bed of th

ravine to get a better point of view, andfrom this elevation she could see th

forest at the head of the gulch.

"Oh, Connie!" she cried, "climb uhere, quick! It's a cyclone!"

Bartrow threw up his head like

startled animal. There was a steady roan the air which was not of the thunder.

"Cyclone nothing!" he yelled. "It's

cloud-burst! Stay where you are, for you

ife, Miss Myra!"

Even as he spoke the roar deepene

until the vibration of it shook the soli



earth, and a dark mass of water, turbid an

débris-laden, shot from the head of th

gulch and swept down the ravine. Bartrow

ived an anguished lifetime in an instant ohesitation. To save the woman he loved

was to sacrifice Constance. To help

Connie first was to take the desperat

chance that Myra would be safe till hcould reach her.

There was no time for the nic

weighing of possibilities; and RicharBartrow was a man of action before al

else. Winding an arm about Constance, h

dashed out of the ravine with her, gettin

back to Myra three seconds in advance ohe boulder-laden flood. There was tim

enough, but none to spare. A tree gave him

an anchorage on the bank above her; sh



sprang toward him at the word o

command; and he plucked her up out of th

reach of the foaming torrent whic

snapped at her and overturned the grearock upon which she had been standing.

After which narrow escape they sa

ogether on the slope of safety anwatched the subsiding flood, laughin

over the "stampede," as Connie called it

with all the reckless hardihood of yout

and good spirits.

"I wouldn't have missed seeing it fo

anything in the world," declared th

enthusiast. "I had plenty of time to get ouof the way, but I couldn't help waiting to

see how it would look, coming over tha

ast cliff up there."



"Dick didn't give me a chance to se

anything," Connie complained. "H

whisked me out of the way as if I'd been

naughty little girl caught playing with thfire."

Bartrow examined the field-glass t

see if it had suffered in the scramble. Iwas unbroken, and he put it back into th

case with a sigh of relief.

"If you two had smashed that glasbetween you, I don't know what I shoul

have done," he said; whereat they al

aughed again and took up the line o

march for the mine.

That evening, after supper, the four o

hem were on the porch of the three

roomed cabin, enjoying the sunse



Constance had spoken to her father abou

he return to Denver, and Stephen Elliot

was racking his brain for some excus

reasonable enough to satisfy Bartrowwhen a man came up the trail from th

direction of Alta Vista. It was Bryant, the

station agent; and he was the bearer of

elegram addressed to Constance. Shread it and gave it to Bartrow. Th

operator had taken it literally, and it was

small study in phonetics.

"Shees gaun an got inter trubbel.

P. Grims swipt her masheen. Wot

shel I do.

"T. Reagan."

Bartrow smiled and handed th

message back. "That's Tommie, I take it



What's it about?"

"It's a young woman I've been trying t

help. They are persecuting her again, an'll have to go back as quickly as I can."

"That's bad," said Bartrow; bu

Connie's father looked greatly relieved

and, filling his pipe, began to burn incens

o the kindly god of chance.

After a time, Bartrow asked, "When?"

Connie's gaze was on the sunset, bu

her thoughts were miles away in a humbl

cottage in West Denver where she had

hought Margaret would be safely hiddefrom the spoiler.

"I think we'd better go now—to-nigh

You can flag the train at the mine switch



can't you?"

"Yes."

"And you can get ready, can't youMyra?"

"Certainly; it won't take me long t

pack. If you'll excuse me I'll go and do inow, and get it off my mind."

When Myra had gone in, Bartrow too

he message and read it again. "This is nwoman's job," he objected. "Let me g

down with you and straighten it out."

"No, you mustn't, Dick; you have lost clear week as it is."

She rose and went to the end of th

porch, whither he presently followed her



"You'll need a man," he insisted.

"I shall have poppa."

"Yes, but he's no good—only to pay thbills."

"No matter; I shall get along all right."

"That's straight, is it?"

"Yes, I mean it."

"All right; you're the doctor. But youmust wire me if you need me."

An hour later the visitors had sai

good-by to Bartrow and the Little Myriadand were on their way down the canyon i

he miniature sleeping-car. Myra pleaded

weariness and had her berth made dow



early. Nevertheless, she lay awake far int

he night gazing out at the rotating heaven

and the silent procession of peaks an

precipices. For a background the shiftinscene held two irrelevant pictures; one

freshly etched, reproducing the littl

drama of the cloud-burst; the other

memory of something she had read,—story in which a man, two women, a

overturned boat, and a storm-lashed lak

figured as the persons and properties.

"He knew which he loved—which t

save first—when the crux came," she sai

softly to her pillow, "and the other gir

was fortunate not to have drowned." Andat that moment a certain well-to-d

gentleman of middle age in a far-away cit

on the Atlantic seaboard was nearer th



goal of his wishes than he had ever bee

before.

In the mean time, Bartrow had anspiration which was importunate enoug

o send him afoot to Alta Vista in the wake

of the swinging passenger train. It foun

voice in a mandatory telegram tLansdale, telling him to call at once upo

Miss Constance Elliott, to present th

message as his credential, and to plac

himself at her service in any requirecapacity, from man-at-arms to attorney-at

aw.



CHAPTER XIII

In his westward sweep over th

Titanic playground of farther Colorado

he sun looks down into a narrow valle

hrough which tumbles a brawling strea

whose waters, snow-born within rifle

shot, go to swell the canyoned flood of th

Gunnison River. Fir-clad mountainssombre green to timber-line and fallow

dun or dazzling white above it, accordin

o the season, stand like a cordon o

mighty sentinels around and about; and thfoot of civilized man treading the sward o

he park-like valley must first hav

measured many weary miles of th

mountain wilderness.



Notwithstanding its apparen

naccessibility, and its remoteness fro

any hoof-worn trail, the valley had onc

been inhabited. The evidences were rude log cabin, with its slab door hangin

by a single leathern hinge, buttressing

weathered cliff on the western bank of th

stream; and, in the opposing mountaislope, a timbered opening bearded with

gray dump of débris, marking the entranc

o a prospect tunnel.

Cabin and tunnel were both th

handiwork of James Garvin. On one of hi

many prospecting tours he had penetrate

o the shut-in valley; and finding a promisof mineral deposits in the slopes of th

sentinel mountains, had gone int

permanent camp and driven the prospec



unnel into the rocky hillside. When he ha

done something more than th

development work necessary to hold th

claim, two things conspired to drive hiforth of the valley. His provisions ra

ow; and the indications in the tunne

which had pointed to a silver-bearing lod

of graphic tellurium, changed suddenly aa "dike" in the strata, and disappeare

altogether.

Garvin was a stubborn man, and thoxin of the prospector's fever was in hi

blood. Wherefore he put himself upo

siege rations and delved against time

When he had baked his last skillet opanbread and fired his last charge o

dynamite in the heading, the dike was stil

unpenetrated. After that, there was nothin



for it but retreat; and he reluctantly brok

camp and left the valley, meaning to retur

when he could.

Two years elapsed and the opportunity

still tarried; but Garvin kept the shut-i

valley in mind, and it was thitherward h

urned his face when Stephen Elliott'iberal "grub-stake," and the hastil

formed partnership with Jeffard, provide

he means and the help necessary to sink

shaft.

It was in the afternoon of a cloudles

August day that Jeffard had his firs

glimpse of the park-like valley lying in thap of the sentinel mountains. The air wa

crisp and thin-edged with the keen breat

of the altitudes, but the untempered heat o

he sun beat pitilessly upon the heads o



he two men picking their laborious wa

over the rock-ribbed shoulder of the leas

precipitous mountain.

"Well, pardner, we've riz the last o' the

hills," quoth Garvin, stepping aside to le

he burro, with its jangling burden of camp

utensils and provisions, precede him"How d'you stack up by this time?"

Jeffard's tongue clave to the roof of hi

mouth. Frantic plunges into the nethedepths are not conducive to good health

moral or physical, and nature wa

exacting the inevitable penalty. For thre

days he had been fighting a losing battlwith an augmenting army of ills, and bu

for the rough heartening of his companio

he would have fallen by the wayside mor

han once during the breath-cutting marc



over the mountain passes. Wherefore hi

answer to Garvin's question was th

babblement of despair.

"I'm a dead man, Garvin. You'll only

have me to bury if you persist in draggin

me any farther. I'm done, I tell you."

Garvin stroked his stubbly chin and hi

his concern under a ferocious scowl.

"No, you ain't done, not by a long sho

You needn't to think I'm goin' to let you

play off on me that-a-way—with th

promised land cuddlin' down yonder i

hat gulch a-waitin' for us. Not much

Mary Ann. You're goin' to twist the crank

o' that there win'lass a-many a time afor

you get shut o' me."



The burro wagged one ear and sat upo

ts haunches preparatory to a perilou

slide down a steep place in the trail

Garvin saved the pack by darting forwarand anchoring both beast and burden b

main strength. While the big man wa

wrestling with the burro, Jeffard stumble

and fell, rose wavering to his knees anfell again, this time with his teeth set t

stifle a groan. Garvin threw the pack

animal with dexterous twitch of it

foreleg, and hoppled it with a turn of th

ariat before going back to Jeffard.

"Now then, up you come," he said

rying to stand Jeffard upon his feet; buhe sick man collapsed inertly and san

down again.

"Let me alone," he enjoined, in



sudden transport of feeble truculence. "

old you I was done, and I am. Can't yo

go about your business and leave a man t

die in peace?"

"Oh, you be damned," retorted Garvi

cheerfully. "All you need is a little mor

sand. Get up and mog along now, 'fore run shy o' patience and thump th

everlastin' daylights out o' you." And h

stooped again and slipped his arm unde

Jeffard's shoulders.

The sick man's head rocked from sid

o side. "Don't," he groaned, this time i

gentler protest. "I'd do it if I could—ionly for your sake. But it isn't in me; I'v

been dying on my feet for the last thre

hours. I couldn't drag myself another step

f the gates of Heaven stood open dow



yonder and all hell were yapping at m

heels. Go on and leave me to fight it out

You can come back to-morrow and cove

up what the buzzards have left."

Garvin straightened up and drew th

back of his hand across his eyes.

"Listen at him!" he broke out, in a fin

frenzy of simulated rage. "Just listen at th

fool idjit talk, will you? And me standin

over him a-pleadin' like a suckin' doveBy crucifer! if it wasn't for throwin' awa

good ammynition, I'd plug him one just fo

his impidence—blame my skin if

wouldn't!" And being frugal of hicartridges, Garvin flung himself upon th

prostrate burro, dragged it to its feet, cas

he jangling burden, pack-saddle and al

and lifted Jeffard astride of the diminutiv



mount.

"There you are," he said, with gruf

enderness. "Now then, just lop your heaon my shoulder and lay back ag'inst m

arm, and play you was a-coastin' down th

hill back o' the old schoolhouse on

greazed streak o' lightnin', with your bibrother a-holdin' you on. We'll make i

pretty middlin' quick, now, if the canar

don't peg out." And thus they mad

entrance into the shut-in valley, and wonacross it to the log cabin whose door hun

slantwise by the single hinge.

Then and there began a grim fight fohe life of a man, with an untutored son o

he solitudes, lacking everything but th

will to do, pitted against a fierce attack o

mountain fever which was aided an



abetted by the devitalizing effects o

Jeffard's hard apprenticeship to evil. I

he end the indomitable will of the nurse

rather than any conscious effort on the parof the patient, won the battle. Garvi

cursed his luck and swore pathetically a

day after day of the short mountai

summer came and went unmarked by anpick-blow on the slopes of the mountain

of promise; but his care of the sick ma

was unremitting, and he was brutall

ender and wrathfully soft-hearted by turn

until Jeffard was well beyond the dange

ine.

It was a lambent evening in the finaweek of August when Garvin carried th

fever-wasted convalescent to the door o

he cabin and propped him in a rusti



chair builded for the occasion.

"How's that?" he demanded, standin

back to get the general effect of man anchair. "Ain't I a jack-leg carpenter, al

right? Now you just brace up and swalle

all the outdoors you can hold while

smoke me a pipe."

He sat down on the doorstep and fille

and lighted his pipe. After a few deep

drawn whiffs, he said, "Don't tire yonone to be a-settin' up, does it?"

"No." Jeffard turned slowly and sniffe

he pungent fragrance of the burnin

obacco with a vague return of the ol

craving. "Have you another pipe?" h

queried. "I believe I'd enjoy a whiff o

wo with you."



"Now just listen at that, will you?

Garvin growled, masking his joy under

ransparent affectation of disgust. "M

akin' care of him like he was a newborned baby, and him a-settin' there, coo

as a blizzard, askin' for a pipe! If I wasn

a bloomin' angel, just waitin' for my wing

o sprout, I'd tell him to go to blazes, that'about what I'd do."

None the less, he went in and found

clean corncob, filling it and giving it tJeffard with a lighted match. Th

convalescent smoked tentatively for a few

minutes, pausing longer between th

whiffs until the fire and the tobaccohunger died out together. After which he

said what was in his mind.

"Garvin, old man, you must begin wor



o-morrow," he began. "I can take care o

myself now, and in a few days I hope I'l

be able to take hold with you. You've los

oo much time tinkering with me. I'm noworth it."

"We'll find out about that when we ge

you on to the crank o' that win'lass," saiGarvin sententiously. "Man's a good dea

ike a horse,—vallyble accordin' t

ocation. They tell me that back in God'

country, where I was raised, horses ainworth their winter keep since the 'lectri

cars come in; but out yere I've seen th

ime when a no-account, gristly littl

bronco, three parts wire and five partpure cussedness, 'u'd a-been worth hi

weight in bullion."

Jeffard picked the application out o



he parable, and smiled.

"You've got your bronco," he asserted

"When you're a little better acquaintewith me you'll find your definition isn't fa

wrong. I used to think I was a halfwa

decent sort of fellow, Garvin, but

believe the last few months have flaileall the whole wheat out of me, leavin

nothing but the musty chaff."

"Oh, you be hanged!" laughed Garvinwith the emphasis heartening. "You're of

your feed a few lines yet and your bloo

needs thickenin', that's all. I'll risk bu

what you'll assay up to grade in the millrun."

Silence came and sat between them fo

a little space, holding its own unti



Jeffard's eye lighted upon the débris

bearded tunnel-opening in the opposit

hillside.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing th

query with an emaciated finger.

"That's my old back number that I wa

ellin' you about on the way in," Garvi

explained. "I thought I'd struck a lead o

ellurides up there, sure, but it petered ou

on me."

"When was that?" Jeffard'

recollection of all things connected wit

he fever-haunted jornada across th

ranges was misty and fragmentary.

"Two year ago this summer," rejoined

he miner; and filling his pipe afresh h



retold the story of his earlier visit to th

valley.

"It's a dead horse," he added, by waof conclusion. "I ought to knowed better

'm old enough at the business to savv

ellurides when I see 'em, and that lea

never did look right from the start."

"Did you ever locate it?" aske

Jeffard.

"Not much! I never got any furder alon

hat-a-way than to stake it off and make

map of it." Garvin found a pack o

humbed and grimy papers in his pocke

and worked his way through it till he cam

upon the map. "You're an engineer," he

said: "how's that for a jack-leg entr

map?"



Jeffard examined the rude sketch an

pronounced it good enough; after which h

folded the paper absently and put it in hi

pocket. Garvin did not notice his failure treturn it,—if, indeed, he thought or care

anything further about it,—and went o

alking of his own unwisdom in driving

unnel on a lode which did not "looright."

"We'll know better, this trip," he

asserted, as somewhat of a salve to thformer hurt. "We'll go higher up the gulch

and sink a shaft; that's about what we'l

do."

And this, in the fullness of time, wa

what they did. After a few days, Jeffard

was able to inch his way by easy stages t

he new location; and by the time Garvi



had dug and blasted himself into a squar

pit windlass-deep, the convalescent wa

strong enough to take his place at the hoist

From the very first, Jeffard was totall

unable to share Garvin's enthusiastic fait

n the possibilities of the new cast fo

fortune. Ignorant of the first principles opractical metal-digging, he was, none th

ess, a fairly good laboratory metallurgist

while Garvin, on the other hand, knew

naught of man's, but much of nature'sbook. Hence there arose many discussion

over the possibilities; Jeffard contendin

hat the silver-bearing lodes of the valle

were not rich enough to bear pack-trairansportation to the nearest railway point

and Garvin clinging tenaciously to th

prospectors' theory that a "true-fissure



vein must of necessity prove a ver

Golconda once you had gone deep enoug

nto its storehouse.

When all was said, the man of th

aboratory won a barren victory. At thirty

feet the lode in the shaft had dwindled to

few knife-blade seams, and the last shofired in the bottom of the excavation put a

end to the work of exploitation by lettin

n a flood of water. Since they had no

means of draining the shaft so suddenlransformed into a well, Garvin gav

over, perforce, but proposed trying thei

uck elsewhere in the valley befor

seeking a new field. Jeffard acquiescedwith the suggestion that they save time b

prospecting in different directions; an

his they did, Garvin taking the upper hal



of the valley and Jeffard the lower. At the

end of a week, Jeffard gave up in disgust

and when his companion begged for ye

one other day, was minded to stay in campand invite his soul in idleness until th

persevering one should be convinced.

As a matter of course, Garvin's damultiplied itself by three, and Jeffar

wore out the interval as best he might

ramping the hillsides in the vicinity of th

cabin to kill time, and smoking uncountepipes on the doorstep in the cool of th

day while waiting for Garvin's return.

It was in the pipe-smoking interregnuof the third day that the abandoned tunne

n the opposite hillside beckoned to him

Oddly enough, he thought, Garvin ha

never referred to it since the retelling o



ts history in the reminiscent pauses o

heir first outdoor evening together

Jeffard's eye measured the dum

appraisively. It was a monument to thheroic perseverance of the solitar

prospector.

"That hole must be thirty or forty feento the hill," he mused. "And to think o

his worrying it out alone!" Here idl

curiosity nudged him with its blunt elbow

and he rose and knocked the ashes frohis pipe. "I believe I'll go up and have

ook at it. It'll kill another half-hour or so

and they're beginning to die rather hard."

He crossed the stream on Garvin'

ancient foot-log, and clambered leisurel

o the toe of the dump. The snows of tw

winters had washed the detritus free o



soil, and Jeffard bent, hand on knee, t

ook for specimens of the ore-bearin

rock.

"Gangue-rock, most of it, with

sprinkling of decomposed quartz along a

he last," he said reflectively. "The quart

was the dike he struck, I suppose. He wawise to give it up. There's no silver in tha

stuff."

He picked up a bit of the snuff-colorerock and crumbled it in his hand. It wa

quite friable, like weathered sandstone

but when the fragment was crushed th

particles still clung together as if mattewith invisible threads. Jeffard was to

new to the business of metal-hunting t

suspect the tremendous significance of th

small phenomenon, but he was sufficientl



curious to gather a double handful of th

fragments of quartz, meaning to ask Garvi

f he had noticed the peculiarity. And

when he had climbed to the tunnel anexplored it to its rock-littered heading b

he light of a sliver splintered from one o

he pitchy logs of the timbering, h

sauntered back to the cabin beneath thwestern cliff and made a fire over whic

o prepare supper against Garvin's return.



CHAPTER XIV

Garvin came into camp late, an

Jeffard needed not to ask the result of th

day's quest. He had cooked the simpl

supper, and they ate it together in silenc

—the big man too weary and dejected t

alk, and Jeffard holding his peace i

deference to Garvin's mood. Over thpipes on the doorstep Jeffard permitte

himself a single query.

"No go?"

"Nary," was the laconic rejoinder.

Jeffard was the least demonstrative o

men, but the occasion seemed to ask fo



something more than sympathetic silence

So he said: "It's hard luck; harder for yo

han for me, I imagine. Somehow, I haven

been able to catch the inspiration of thmineral-hunt; but you have, and you'v

worked hard and earned a better send

off."

"Huh! far as earnin' goes, I reckon it's

stand-off 'twixt the two of us. You've

certain'y done your share o' the pullin' an

haulin', if you have been sort o' like whahe boys call a 'hoodoo.'"

Jeffard blew a cloud of smoke towar

he gray rock-beard hanging ghostlbeneath the black mouth of the excavatio

n the opposite hillside, and was far fro

aking offense. "Meaning that I haven

been enthusiastic enough to fill the bill?



he asked.

"I guess that's about it. And it alway

seemed sort o' cur'ous to me. Money'd dyou a mighty sight more good than i

would me."

Jeffard smoked his pipe out, debatin

with himself whether it was worth whil

o try to explain his indifference to hi

companion. He did try, finally, though

more for the sake of putting the fact intwords than in any hope of making i

understandable to Garvin.

"I'm afraid it isn't in me to care ver

much about anything," he said, at the en

of the reflective excursion. "Six month

ago I could have come out here with yo

and given you points on enthusiasm; bu



since then I've lived two or thre

ifetimes. I'm a very old man, Garvin. On

day, not so very long ago, if you measur

by weeks and months, I was young anstrong and hopeful, like other men; bu

nstead of burning the candle decently a

he proper end, I made a bonfire of it. Th

fire has gone out now, and I haven't another candle."

The big prospector was good-naturedl

ncredulous. "You've had the fever, andyou're rattled, yet; that's all that's th

matter with you. You've been flat down on

your luck, like one or two of the rest of us

but that ain't any reason why you can't geup ag'in, is it?"

Jeffard despaired of making it clear t

any simple-hearted son of the wilderness



but he must needs try again.

"That is your view of the case, and i

would be that of others who knew thcircumstances as well as you do. But i

doesn't fit the individual. David said h

would wash his hands in innocency, and

perhaps he could, and did—though I doubt. I can't. When you picked me up tha

night on the shore of the pond, I'd bee

wandering around in the bottomless pi

and had lost my way. I knew then shouldn't find it again, and I haven't.

seem to have strayed into a regio

somewhere beyond the place where th

actual brimstone chokes you; but it's barren desert where nothing seems quit

he same as it used to—where nothing i

he same, as a matter of fact. Do I make i



plain?"

"You bet you don't," responded Garvin

out of the depths of cheerful density"You've been a mile or two out o' my

reach for the last half-hour 'r so. Ther

ain't no use a-cryin' over spilt milk, i

what I say; and when I go kerflummixwhy, I just cuss a few lines and get up and

mog along, same as heretofore."

Jeffard laughed, but there was no mirtn him.

"I envy you; you are a lucky man to b

able to do it. I wish in my soul I could."

"What's the reason you can't?"

"That is precisely what I haven't bee

able to make you understand. But the fac



remains. The Henry Jeffard my mothe

knew is dead and buried. In his place ha

arisen a man who is acquainted with evi

and is skeptical about most other thingsGarvin, if you knew me as well as I know

myself, you'd run me out of this valle

with a gun before you slept. I owe you a

heavy a debt of gratitude as any one maever owed another, and yet if your welfar

stood between the beginning and the en

of some devil's service in which I migh

be commissioned, you wouldn't be safe t

sleep in the same cabin with me."

"Oh, you be damned," said the big man

relapsing into a deeper depth oncredulity. "You've got a devil 'r two, al

right, maybe, but they're the blue kind, an

hey'll soak out in the washin'. Fact o' th



matter is, our cussed luck in this yere hol

n the ground has struck in on you worse'

t has on me. You'll be all right when we

get some place else and strike it rich."

Jeffard refilled his pipe and gave ove

rying to define himself in set terms. Whe

next he broke silence it was to speak ohe impending migration.

"I suppose we pull out in the morning?

he said.

"Might as well. We've played the

string out up yere. Besides, summer'

gone, and a month of fall, and the grub'

runnin' shy."

"Where next?" inquired Jeffard.

"I dunno, hardly. 'Tain't worth while to



strike furder in, this late in the season

We've got to be makin' tracks along back

'wards the valley afore the snow comes

and that'll be pretty quick now. What dyou say to tryin' some o' the gulches o' th

Mosquito?"

"Anywhere you say. I'm with you—iyou care to take me after what I've tried t

ell you. But you'd much better go alone

You had it right a while ago; you have

yoked yourself to a Jonah."

"Jonah nothin'!" growled the soft

hearted giant. "Nex' time I set out to devi

you, I'll drill a hole aforehand and put in pinch o' dannymite along with the joke

Then when I tech it off, you'll know."

The moon was riding high in the blac



arch of the sky, and the gray dump on th

opposite mountain stood out in bold relief

Jeffard rose and leaned against th

doorpost.

"Garvin, you have never yet told m

who staked us for this trip," he said

broaching a subject which had more thaonce asked for speech.

The miner laughed. "You never asked

t's the same old man that staked me whewas yere the first time."

"When you dug that hole up yonder i

he hill?"

"Um—hm."

"Who is he?"



Garvin hesitated. "I had a fool notion

wouldn't tell you till we'd struck somethin

worth while," he said finally. "If so b

we've got to go back with our fingers iour mouths, I put it up that maybe you'

feel easier in your mind if you didn

know. You're so cussed thin-skinned abou

some things that a feller has to watch oufor you continnyus."

Jeffard dug the kindly intention out o

he upbraiding, and forebore to press thquestion. After all, what did it matter

Whatever befell, he was under n

obligations to any one save Garvin. And

n the itemizing of that debt, an obligatiowhich made him restive every time h

hought of it, he lost sight of the questio

he had intended asking about th



peculiarity of the snuff-colored rock in th

abandoned tunnel.

A little later, Garvin got up with amighty yawn, and said: "If we're goin' t

get out o' here afore noon to-morrer,

reckon we'd better be huntin' us a littl

sleep."

"Turn in if you like; I'm not sleepy yet,

said Jeffard; and when Garvin was gon

n, he fell to pacing up and down beforhe cabin door with his hands behind hi

and the cold pipe between his teeth.

To what good end had he been

preserved by Garvin's interference on tha

night of despair two months before? Ha

he reprieve opened up any practicabl

way out of the cynical labyrinth into whic



he had wandered? Had his immens

obligation to the prospector quickened an

fibre of the dead sense of huma

responsibility, or lighted any fire ogenerous love for his kind?

He shook his head. To none of these

questions could he honestly append aaffirmative. In the desolate wreck he ha

made of his life no good thing ha

survived save his love for Constanc

Elliott. That, indeed, was hopeless on thside of fruition; but he clung to it as th

one clue of promise, hoping, and yet no

daring to hope, that it might one day lea

him out of the wilderness of indifferenceWhile he dwelt upon it, pacing back an

forth in the moonlight, he recalled hi

picture of her standing in the dust-filtere



afternoon sunlight, with the dim corrido

for a background.

"God keep you, my darling. I may noook upon your face again, but the memor

of your loving kindness to one soul-sic

castaway will live while he lives."

He said it reverently, turning his fac

oward the far-away city beyond the foot

hills; and there was no subtle sense o

divination to tell him that, at an unmappeside-track on the farther slope of th

southernmost sentinel mountain, Bartrow

was at that moment handing Constanc

Elliott up the steps of a diminutivsleeping-car which was presently to g

urching and swaying on its way down th

mountain in the wake of a pygm

ocomotive. Nor could he know that,



few hours earlier, the far-seeing gra

eyes, out of whose depths he had onc

drawn courage and inspiration and th

will to do good, had rested for a momenon the shut-in valley.

For the southward sentinel mountai

was known to the dwellers on its fartheslopes as El Reposo.



CHAPTER XV

Robert Lansdale, literary starvelin

and doomed victim of an incurabl

malady, was yet sufficiently unchastened

o read Bartrow's telegram with the nerve

of reluctance sharp set. For what h

persuaded himself were good an

defensible reasons, he had lived the life oan urban hermit in Denver, arguing that

poverty-smitten crumb-gatherer with on

foot in the grave might properly refuse t

be other than an onlooker in any scene ohe human comedy.

The prompting was not altogethe

unselfish. In common with other craftsme



of his guild, Lansdale was blessed, o

banned, with a moiety of the seer's gif

For him, as for all who can discern th

masks and trappings and the sham stageproperties, the world-comedy had becom

pitifully tragic; and he was by natur

compassionate and sympathetic

Wherefore he spared himself the personapoint of view, cultivating an aloofnes

which his few friends were prone t

miscall cynicism and exclusiveness.

Lansdale knew Miss Elliott by repute

and he shrewdly suspected that she knew

all Bartrow could tell her about a certai

iterary pretender who had once been rudenough to send apologies to a hostess wh

had not invited him. None the les

Bartrow was too good a friend to b



gnored in the day of his asking; an

Lansdale presented himself at the door o

he house in Colfax Avenue at an

unfashionably early hour, meaning tobegin by making the tender of his service

as nearly a matter of business as might be

It was Connie herself who met him ahe door and would hear no more than hi

name until he was established in he

father's easy-chair before the cheerful fir

n the library. Her welcome wahospitably cordial; and Lansdale, who ha

fondly imagined embarrassment to be on

of the foibles most deeply buried unde

he débris of the disillusioning yearsfound himself struggling with an attack o

ongue-tied abashment which is like to b

he penalty exacted of any hermit wh



refuses to mix and mingle with his kind.

"I came to see you at the request of

friend of yours, and of mine, Miss Elliott,he began formally, fumbling in his pocke

for the telegram. "I have a message fro

Mr. Richard Bartrow which—will—

explain"—

The search and the sentence ravele

out together in the discovery that th

elegram which was to have been hintroduction had been left on the writing

able in his room. Connie saw

consternation in his face and made haste t

help him.

"From Mr. Bartrow? We have jus

returned from a visit to his mine up i

Chaffee County. Did he forget somethin



hat he wanted to tell us, at the las

moment?"

"Really, I—I can't say," stammeredLansdale, to whom the loss of the telegra

was the dragging of the last anchor o

equanimity. "It appears that I wa

houghtless enough to leave the telegram imy room. Will you excuse me until I can

go back and fetch it?"

"Is it necessary?" Connie queried"Can't you tell me what he says?"

Lansdale pulled himself together an

gave her the gist of Bartrow's mandate

Miss Elliott's laugh made him forget hi

embarrassment.

"That is just like Dick," she said. "H



offered to come down with us last night

but I wouldn't let him. You know Mr

Bartrow quite well, do you not?"

"Very well, indeed."

"Then you know how anxious h

always is to help his friends."

"No one has better cause to know; he i

one of the finest fellows in the world,

Lansdale rejoined warmly.

"Thank you, for Dick's sake," sai

Connie; "now we shall get on nicely. Bu

o go back a little: a young woman whom

have been trying to help is in somrouble, and Dick thought he might b

needed. It was out of the goodness of hi

heart. I really don't need any help—a



east, not more than my father's check

book can answer for."

"Are you quite sure? You musremember that I am Richard Bartrow'

substitute, and make use of m

accordingly. May I know th

circumstances?"

Constance related them, telling hi

Margaret Gannon's story as only a siste

of mercy could tell it; without extenuatioor censure, and also withou

embarrassment. Lansdale listene

absorbedly, with the literary instinc

dominant. It was Margaret Gannon's storybut Constance Elliott was the heroine;

heroine worthy the pen of a maste

craftsman, he thought, while the creativ

part of him was busy with the pulling an



hauling and scene-shifting which th

discovery of a Heaven-born central figur

sets in motion. But in the midst of it th

man got the better of the craftsman. Hforesaw with sudden clarity of insight tha

Miss Elliott would presently be of th

nner circle of those out of whom the mos

hardened votary of the pen cannot makcopy; those whose personality is sacre

because it is no longer a thing apart to b

dispassionately analyzed.

When she made an end, he sat lookin

at her so intently and so long that she grew

nervous. The light in his eyes made he

feel as if she were focused under thobject glass of a microscope. He saw th

enthusiasm die out of her face and giv

place to discomposure, and made eage



apologies.

"Forgive me, Miss Elliott; I didn

mean to be rude. But I have never lookeupon your like before,—a woman i

whom the quality of mercy is not strained

whose charity is compassionate enough t

reach out to the unfortunate of her owsex."

Connie was too simple-hearted to b

self-conscious under commendation.

"That is because your opportunitie

have been unkind, I fancy. A few years

ago your criticism would have been ver

ust; but nowadays much of the rescu

work is done by women, as it should be."

"Much of the organized work, yes. Bu



your own story proves that it has no

become individualized."

"That may well be the fault of thadvocate in Margaret's case," returne

Connie, whose charity was no

circumscribed. "If any one of the man

good women I have tried to enlist in thiyoung woman's cause had been the one t

discover her, I should doubtless have th

same story to tell, and quite possibly wit

a better sequel. But now you understanwhy I don't need help. Tommie—he's my

newsboy henchman, you know—has bee

here this morning to make his report. I

seems that when Margaret was taken sicshe was in debt to this man Grim fo

costumes, or railway fare, or something

and he has taken her sewing-machine t



satisfy the claim."

The hectic flush in Lansdale's thi

cheek began to define itself, with a littlpulse throbbing in the centre of it.

"He is an iniquitous scoundrel, and h

ought to be prosecuted," he declared

"Don't you see?—but of course you don't

you are too charitable to suspect his rea

object, which is to drive the young woma

back into the service of his master, thdevil. He had no more legal right to tak

her sewing-machine than he would have t

attach the tools of a mechanic. Is there an

aw in Colorado?"

"Plenty of it," Connie rejoined; adding

with unconscious sarcasm, "but I think it i

chiefly concerned with disputes abou



mining claims."

"Let us hope there is a statute or tw

over and above, for the protection oordinary mortals," said Lansdale, risin

and finding his hat. "I presume you mean

o buy Margaret another sewing-machine

You mustn't encourage buccaneering inany such way. Let me go and try m

powers of persuasion on Mr. Peter Grim.

But Connie was not unmindful of whaBartrow had told them about Lansdale's il

health, and she promptly disapproved.

"No, indeed, you mustn't, Mr

Lansdale; you mustn't think of doing an

such thing. You don't know the man. He is

a 'hold-over' desperado from the stage

ine days. Even Dick admits that he is



person to be feared and avoided. And

besides, you're not strong, you know."

Lansdale smiled down upon her frohis gaunt height, and his heart warmed t

her in a way which was not to b

accounted for by the simple rule of th

humanities.

"Dick told you that, too, did he? I a

sorry."

"Why?"

"Because it involves your sympathy

and sympathy is much too precious to b

wasted upon such flotsam as I. But I aquite robust enough to see justice done i

his young woman's case. You mus

promise me not to move in it until yo



hear from me."

Connie promised and let him go. But i

he stronger light of the hall she saw howreally ill he looked, and was remorsefull

repentant, after her kind.

Lansdale left the house in Colfa

Avenue with an unanalyzed sense o

evitation, which made him feel as thoug

he were walking upon air; but when h

had accounted for the phenomenon hcame to earth again with disheartenin

celerity. What had a man in whose daily

walk death was a visible presence to d

with the tumult of gladsome suggestioevoked by a few words of sympathy fro

a compassionate young woman with

winsome face and innocent eyes? Nothing

clearly, nothing whatever. Lansdale set hi



eeth upon the word, and drove th

suggestion forth with sudden bitterness

His part in the little drama growing out o

Miss Elliott's deed of mercy was at besbut that of a supernumerary. When h

should have made his entrance and exit, h

must go the way of other supernumeraries

and be presently forgotten of the reaactors.

So ran the wise conclusion; but th

event leagued itself with unwisdom, anhe prudent forecasting gave place to th

apparent necessities. The preliminar

nterview with Grim was wholly abortive

The man of vice not only refused poinblank to make restitution, but evinced

readiness to take the matter into the court

which was most disconcerting to Margare



Gannon's moneyless advocate. Thereupo

ensued other visits to the house in Colfa

Avenue, and a growing and confidentia

ntimacy with Constance, and the enlistinof Stephen Elliott in the cause of justice

and many other things not prefigured i

Lansdale's itinerary.

And at the end of it all it was Stephe

Elliott's check-book, and not an appeal t

he majesty of the law, which rescued

Margaret Gannon's sewing-machine; anhe man of vice pocketed the amount of hi

extortionate claim, and gave a receipt i

full therefor, biding his time, and biddin

an obsequious Son of Ahriman—the samwhom Jeffard had smitten aforetime—

keep an eye on Margaret Gannon agains

he day when she should be sufficientl



unbefriended to warrant a recasting of th

net.

And when these things had come tpass, Robert Lansdale was of all men th

most miserable. From much dabbling i

he trickling rill of fictional sentiment, h

had come to disbelieve the existence oany deep river of passion; but now h

found himself upon the brink of such

river and was forbidden to plunge therein

ay, more; he must turn away from itparched and thirsty as any waywor

pilgrim of the world-desert, without s

much as lifting a palmful of its healin

waters to his lips.

He postponed the turning away fro

day to day, weakly promising himself tha

each visit to the house in Colfax Avenue



should be the last, and as weakly yieldin

when a day or two of abstinence ha

enhanced his soul-hunger until it became

restless agony, mocking his most strenuoueffort to drown it in a sea of work.

Failing himself utterly, he fell to

watching Connie's face for some token ohe hopelessness of his passion, tellin

himself that he should find strength to sta

away when he should read his sentence i

he calm gray eyes. But Connie's eyewere as yet no more than frankl

sympathetic. And because he was far fro

home, and seemingly friendless, an

fighting the last grim battle with ancurable malady, she made him welcom

and yet more welcome, until finally, th

optimistic insanity of the consumptiv



came upon him, assuring him that h

should live and not die, and pointing hi

hopefully down a dim vista of years,—

shining way wherein they two might walhand in hand till they should come to th

gate of the House Beautiful whos

chatelaine is Fame.



CHAPTER XVI

The line of retreat from the valley

called by Jeffard "of dry bones," to th

possible land of promise in the Mosquito

ay through Leadville; not the teeming

ebullient, pandemoniac mining-camp o

he early carbonate era, but its les

crowded, less effervescent, though no lesstrenuous successor of the present.

On the march across the sky-pitche

mountains it had been agreed betwee

hem that there should be one bivouac i

he city of the bleak altitudes. That is t

say, Garvin proposed it, and Jeffard

assented, though not without a premonitio



hat the halt would be fatal to the propose

Mosquito sequel to the campaign in th

Saguache. He knew at least one o

Garvin's weaknesses, and that it was akio his own. There were the beast o

burden and the dispensable moiety of th

camping outfit to sell, and provision t

buy; and Jeffard weighed his companion the balances of his own shortcomings

He was well assured that he could no

rust himself with money in his hand in an

such city of chanceful opportunity as th

great carbonate camp; and arraignin

Garvin at the bar of the same tribunal, h

udged him before the fact.It was a measure of the apatheti

ndifference which possessed Jeffard tha

he premonition gave him scant concern



He marveled inwardly when the fact o

ndifference defined itself. Aside from an

promptings of common human gratitud

evolving themselves into friendlsolicitude for the man who had twic

saved his life,—promptings which h

found dead because he looked to find the

dead,—there was this: If his companioshould stumble and spill the scant

residue in the common purse the wolf

pack of famine and distress would be a

heir heels in a single sweep of the clock

hands. And yet the fact remained.

Jeffard was cogitating vaguely thi

curious manifestation of mental and moranertia when the city of the altitudes cam

nto view over the crest of the final ascen

n the toilsome journey. The smoke fro



he smelters was trailing lazily toward th

distant Mosquito, and a shifting cumulu

of steam marked the snail-like advance o

a railway train up the steep grade froMalta. California Gulch and the olde

own were hidden behind the mountain o

approach; but the upper town and it

western environs lay stark in the hazelesatmosphere, with the snow-splotche

background of the nearer range, uptilte

and immense, dwarfing the houses int

hutch-like insignificance. Dreary as is thi

first view of the Mecca of wealth-seekers

t has quickened the pulse and brightene

he eye of many a wayworn pilgrim of thmountain desert; but Jeffard's thought wa

n his question to Garvin.

"Is it as near as it looks? or is it as fa



away as this cursed no-atmospher

removes everything?"

"It's a good ten mile 'r so, yet. If we gea move on, we'll make it by sundown

maybe."

They tramped on in silence, the singin

silence of the crystalline heights

measuring mile after mile at the heels o

he patient burro, and reaching th

scattering outposts of the western suburbwhile yet the sun hung hesitant above th

peaks of the main range. The nearer aspec

of the great mining-camp wa

nexpressibly depressive to Jeffard. Thweathered buildings, frankly utilitaria

and correspondingly unbeautiful; the hars

sterility of the rocky soil; the ruthles

subordination of all things to the sordi



purposes of money-getting; these were th

stage-settings of a scene which moved hi

curiously, like the fumes of a mingled cup

ntoxicating, but soul-nauseating, withaThe nausea was a consequent of th

changed point of view, and he knew it; bu

t was no whit less grievous. Wherefor

he groped in the pool of indifference untihe found a small stone of protest.

"Let us do what we have to do and ge

away from here quickly, Garvin," he saidflinging the stone with what precisio

here was in him.

They had turned into the principastreet, and the burro became reluctan

Garvin smote the beast from behind, an

ook a turn of the halter around its jaw.



"Goin' to gig back for the crowd, ain

you?" he growled, apostrophizing the jack

and then to Jeffard: "Makes you sort o

own-sick, I reckon. I know the feel of itused to catch it, reg'lar, ever' time I'd ge

n from the range. It'll wear off after a da

r so; but, as you say, the quick way to do

t up is to light out ag'in, suddint."

"The sooner the better," said Jeffard

"The atmosphere of the place i

maddening."

Garvin took the word literally an

aughed. "'T ain't got no atmosphere t

speak of,—that's what's the matter with itoo blame' high up for any use."

They were in the thick of the stree

raffic by this time, and it required thei



united malisons joined to what of energ

and determination the long day's marc

had left them to keep the ass from plantin

tself monument-wise in the middle of thstreet.

"Dad burn a canary, anyhow!

grumbled the man of the wilderness, whehey were resting a moment in front of

shackly building on the corner of a cros

street. "For ornerary, simon-pure, b'iled

down, soul-killin'"—His vocabulary oobjurgatory expletives ran short, and h

wrought out the remainder of th

malediction with a dumb show o

violence.

Jeffard smiled in spite of his mood

which was anything but farcical, an

pointed to the haversack of specimen



dangling from the loosened pack.

"We're about to lose the samples," he

said.Garvin regained his wonted good

humor at a plunge.

"That'd be too blame' bad, wouldn't itnow; they're so blazin' precious! S'pos

you lug 'em acrost yonder to that ther

assay-shop whilst I toll the canary dow

o the corral. When you get shut o' th

rocks, come on round to the boardin

house,—'Miner's Rest,'—a block furde

along and two to your right. I'll meet yo

here bime-by, if there's anything left o' m

after I get through with this dad-burned

op-eared totin'-machine."



Jeffard shouldered the bag of samples

but before he could reply the opportunit

fled clamorous. The lop-eared one

finding itself free for the moment, gavheed to a foolish bee buzzing in its atomi

brain, and went racing down the cros

street, with the big miner in hot pursuit.

"Exit James Garvin," quoth Jeffard

moved to smile again; and he crossed th

avenue to the shackly building with th

sign of the assayer besprent upon thwindows.

When he tried the door and found i

ocked, and the littered room beyond iempty, he was minded to go on to th

rendezvous while daylight served. Bu

when he reflected that Garvin would b

sure to await an assayer's verdict on th



samples, and so prolong their stay in th

city of banality, he decided to conclud

he business affair first. So he went up an

down and around and about, and found alhe assay offices closed for the day sav

one, whose occupant, a round-bodie

ittle German, with the face of a cherub

martialized by the huge mustachios of cuirassier, was still at his bench. Jeffard

guessed at the little man's nationality, and

made a shrewd bid for celerity.

"Guten abend, mein Herr ," he said

unslinging his haversack.

The cherubic face of the expatriateone responded quickly to the greeting i

he loved mother-tongue.

"Wie geht's, wie geht's, mein gute



err ," he rejoined; and then in broke

English: "I haf not dot Cherman befor

heard spoken in dis Gott-forsaken blaces

You haf some sambles gebracht ?"

" Ja, mein Herr."

"Gut! I vill of dem de tests maig. Nich

wahr?"

"Gefälligst, mein lieber Herr ;" an

quickly,—"we must go on our way agai

o-morrow."

"So qvick? Ach! das ist nicht sehr gut

You vill der poor olt assay-meister maig

o vork on der nide. But because you hader goot Cherman in your moud I vill i

do. Vat you haf?"

Jeffard unwrapped the samples one b



one, and the assayer examined them wit

many dubious head-shakings. The amateu

made haste to anticipate the preliminar

verdict.

"I know they're valueless," h

admitted, "but I have a partner who wil

require your certificate before he will bconvinced. Can you let us know to

morrow?"

"Because you haf der Cherman, yesBut it vill be no goot; der silwer iss no

dere"—including the various specimens i

a comprehensive gesture.

Jeffard turned to go, slinging th

ightened haversack over his shoulder. A

he door he bethought him of the curiou

fragment of quartz picked up on the dump



of the abandoned tunnel. It was in hi

pocket, and he rummaged till he found it.

"Can you tell me anything about this?he asked. "It seems to be a decompose

quartzite, matted on a base of some sort,—

a metal, I should say."

The little German snatched the bit o

quartz, and ogled it eagerly through hi

eye-glass.

"Mein Gott im Himmel!" he cried; an

he eye-glass fell to the floor and rolle

under the bench. "Iss it possible dot yo

know him not? Dot iss golt, mein liebe

reund ,—vire golt, reech, reech! Vere you

got him? Haf you got some more von dis?

Jeffard took it in vaguely, and tried to



remember what he had done with th

handful of similar fragments gathered a

he same time. It came to him presently

He had emptied his pocket into thhaversack on the morning of the departur

from the valley what time Garvin wa

seeking the strayed burro.

He unslung the canvas bag and poure

he handful of gravel on the bench. Th

assayer, trembling now with repressed

excitement, examined the snuff-colorequartz, bit by bit, with a guttura

ejaculation for each. " Donnerwetter! H

gifs me feerst der vorthless stones to mai

of dem de assay, und den he vill ask mvon leedle qvestion about dis—di

maknificend bonansa! Ach! mein freund

haf you got viel of dis precious qvartz?"



"Why, yes; there's a good bit of it,

believe," replied Jeffard, still unawake t

he magnitude of the discovery.

"Und you can find der blaces again

Dink aboud it now—dink hardt!"

Jeffard smiled. "Don't get excited

mein Herr . I know the place very well

ndeed; I left it only three days since."

"Gut; sehr gut! Now go you; go un

eef me to mein vork. Come you back i

der morgen, und I vill tell you dot you ar

reech, reech! Go, mein freund , mit de

goot Cherman in your moud—und Gott g

mit you."

Jeffard felt his way down the dar

stair, and so on out into the lighted street



still only in the middle ground betwee

realization and the bare knowledge of th

fact. He was conscious of some vagu

recurrent effort to surround the incrediblhing; and conscious, too, that it grew an

spread with each succeeding attempt t

measure it until no mere human arms coul

girdle it.

Not yet did it occur to him to plac

himself at the nodus of discovery an

possession. The miraculous thing was fohim quite a thing apart; and when he ha

advanced far enough into the open countr

of realization to look a little about him, hi

hought was wholly for Garvin and theffect upon him of this sudden projectio

nto the infinite. He tried to imagine th

simple-hearted prospector as a man o



affluence, and laughed aloud at th

grotesque figure conjured up by th

hought. What would Garvin do with hi

money? Squander it royally, like a loyason of fortune, and think the world wel

ost, Jeffard decided.

The hissing gasoline torch of a streefakir flared gustily in the keen night win

sweeping down from the Mosquito, an

he scintillant arc-stars at the corner

began to take on frosty aureoles oprismatic hues. The crowds on th

resonant plank sidewalks streame

boisterous and masterful, as if the plangen

spirit of time and place were abroadJeffard came to earth again in the rud

ostling of the throng. While h

speculated, Garvin—Garvin th



nexpectant—was doubtless awaiting hi

at the place appointed. He must haste

hither to be the bearer of the good new

o the unspoiled one.

Looking about him to get his bearings

he found himself in front of the deserte

assay office on the spot where he haparted from Garvin. "One square dow

and two to the right," he said, repeatin

Garvin's directions; and he set out t

rudge them doggedly, lagging a little frohonest leg-weariness. In the last half of th

hird square there was a screene

doorway, and the click of celluloid

counters came to his ears from thbrilliantly lighted room beyond. At th

sound the embers of the fire kindle

months before glowed afresh and made hi



heart hot.

"Ah, you're there yet, are you?" h

said, speaking to the stirring passion as it were a sentient entity within him. "Well

you'll have to lie down again; there's n

meat on the bone."

At the designated corner he found th

rendezvous. It was a hostelry of the base

sort, with a bar-room dominant, and eatin

and sleeping conveniences—onconveniences—subsidiary. The clatte

of knives and forks on ironstone chin

came from the ill-smelling dining-room i

he rear, and the bar-room held but onoccupant. It was Garvin; he was sitting a

one of the card-tables with his head in hi

arms. He looked up when Jeffard entered

and his smile was of fatigue.



"Hello, there; thought you'd gone an

got lost in the shuffle. Get shut of 'em?"

Jeffard nodded."No good, I reckon?"

"No; nothing that we've found thi

summer. But you're a rich man, just thsame, Garvin."

"Yes; I've cashed in on the outfit, and

've got twenty dollars in my insidpocket. Let's go in and chew before the

fellers eat it all up."

"Don't be in a hurry; the kind of suppewe'll get here can wait. I said you are

rich man, and I meant it. You remembe

he old hole up in the hillside above th

camp,—the one you struck a 'dike' in tw



years ago?"

"Reckon I ain't likely to forget it."

"Well, that 'dike' was decomposedquartz carrying free gold. I was curiou

enough to put a handful of the stuff into m

pocket and bring it out. The assayer's a

work on it now, and he says it'll run hig

—up into the hundreds, I imagine. Is ther

much of it?"

The effect of the announcement on th

unspoiled one was like that of an electri

shock. He staggered to his feet, wen

white under the bronze, and flung his arm

about Jeffard.

"Hooray!" he shouted; "that old hole—

hat same derned old hole 'at I've cusse



out more'n a million times! Damn my foo

soul, but I knew you was a Mascot—knew

t right from the jump! Come on—let'

rrigate it right now, 'fore it's a minutolder!"

It was out of the depth of pure good

fellowship that Jeffard went to the bawith the fortune-daft miner. Not all th

vicissitudes of the breathless rush dow

he inclined plane had been sufficient t

slay the epicure in him; and the untidy bareeked malodorous. But the occasion wa

ts own excuse.

Garvin beat upon the bar with his fistand the roar of his summons drowned th

clatter of knives and forks in the adjacen

dining-room. The bartender came out

wiping his lips on the back of his hand.



"What'll it be, gents?"

"The best you've got ain't goo

enough," said Garvin, with unwittinsarcasm. "Trot her out—three of a kind

t's on me, and the house is in it."

The man spun two glasses across th

bar, and set out a black bottle of dubiou

aspect. Knowing his own stock in trade

he drew himself a glass of Apollinari

water.

Jeffard sniffed at the black bottle an

christened his glass sparingly. Th

bouquet of the liquor was an entire roun

of dissipation with the subsequen

headache thrown in. Garvin tilted th

bottle with trembling hand, and filled hi

glass to the brim. The object-lesson wa



not thrown away upon the epicure.

"Here's to the derned old hole with

cold million in it," said the miner, naminhe toast and draining his glass in the sam

breath. And then: "Come again, barkeep

drink water yourself, if you want to, bu

he red likker's good enough for us. Whado ye say, pardner? We're in it at last

plum up to the neck, and all on account o

hat derned old hole 'at I've cussed out

mil— Here's lookin' at ye."

Jeffard merely moistened his lips th

second time, and the object-lesso

exemplified itself. Garvin had brimmehis glass again, and the contents of th

black bottle were adulterant poisons

Wherefore he cut in quickly when Garvi

would have ordered again.



"That'll do, old man; a little at a tim

and often, if you must, but not on an empt

stomach. Let's get the money before w

spend it."

The latter part of the warning ha

special significance for the bartender

who scowled ominously.

"Lemme see the color o' yer money,

he commanded. "If youse fellies ar

runnin' futures on me"—

Now Garvin had been living the life o

an anchoret for many weeks, and the fume

of the fiery liquor were already mountin

o his brain. For which cause th

bartender's insinuation was as spark t

ow.



"Futures?" he yelled, throwing down

en-dollar bill with a mighty buffet on th

bar; "them's the kind o' futures we'r

drinkin' on right now! Why, you thickipped, mealy-mouthed white nigger, you

'll come down here some day and buy th

floor out from in under your feet; see

Come on, pardner; let's mog along out ohere 'fore I'm tempted to mop up hi

greasy floor with this here"—

There was hot wrath in the bartender'eyes, and Jeffard hustled the abusive on

out of the place lest a worse thing shoul

follow. On the sidewalk he remembered

what Garvin had already forgotten, anwent back for the change out of the ten

dollar bill, dropping it into his pocket an

rejoining his companion before the latte



had missed him. Thereupon ensued a wa

of words. The newly belted knight o

fortune was for making a night of it; an

when Jeffard would by no means conseno this, Garvin insisted upon going to th

best hotel in the city, where they migh

ive at large as prospective millionaire

should.

Jeffard accepted the alternative, an

constituted himself bearward in ordinar

o the half-crazed son of the wildernessHe saw difficulties ahead, and the even

proved that he did not overestimate them

What a half-intoxicated man, bent upo

becoming wholly intoxicated, may do tmake thorny the path of a self-constitute

guardian Garvin did that night. At the hote

he scandalized the not too curious clerk



and became the centre of an appreciativ

group in the rotunda what time Jeffard wa

pleading the mitigating circumstances wit

he hesitant deputy proprietor. In the midsof the plea, when Jeffard had consented t

assume all responsibility for hi

companion's vagaries, Garvin broke cove

n the direction of the bar-room, followeby a tail of thirsty ones.

"You say you know him?" said the

clerk tentatively.

"Know him? Why, yes; he is m

partner. We are just in from the range, and

he has struck it rich. It's a little too mucfor him just now, but he'll quiet down afte

a bit. He is one of the best fellows alive

when he's sober; and this is the first tim

've ever seen him in liquor. Two drink



of bad whiskey did it."

"Two drinks and a surfeit of good

uck," laughed the clerk. "Well, we'll takehim; but you must keep him out of the way

He'll be crazy drunk in less than an hour

Been to supper?"

"No."

"Better have it sent to your room. H

sn't fit to go to the dining-room."

"All right; have a bell-boy ready, and

'll knock him down and drag him out, if

can."

That was easier said than done. Jeffar

found the foolish one in the bar-room

drinking ad libitum, and holding forth to

circle of interested hearers. Garvin ha



evidently been recounting the history o

he abandoned claim, and one of th

isteners, a hawk-faced man, with shift

black eyes, was endeavoring to draw hiaside. He succeeded just as Jeffard thrus

his way into the circle, and the self

elected bearwarden caught the whispere

question and its answer.

"You say you located her two year

ago?" queried the hawk-faced one.

"No; that's the joke o' the whol

shootin'-match,—thess like I was a-tellin

ye." Garvin's speech ran back to its nativ

Tennessee idiom at the bidding ontoxication. "She ain't nev' been locate

it ; and if it hadn't 'a' been for that derne

ittle sharp-eyed pardner o' mine"—



The questioner turned quickly to th

bar.

"Drinks all round, gentlemen—on me.Then to Garvin in the cautious undertone

"You said she was over in Stray Horse

Valley, didn't you?"

Garvin fell into the trap headlong. "No

much I didn't! She's a-snugglin' dow

under one o' the bigges' peaks in th

Saguache, right whar she can listen to thpurlin' o' the big creek that heads in"—

There was no time for diplomati

nterference. Jeffard locked his arm abou

Garvin's head, and dragged the big ma

bodily out of the circle.

"You fool!" he hissed. "Will you pitch



t into the hands of the first man that ask

for it? Come along out of this!"

Garvin stood dazed, and a murmur odisapproval ran through the group o

hirsters. The hand of the hawk-faced on

stole by imperceptible degrees toward hi

hip pocket. Jeffard stopped it with a look.

"You have had fun enough with my

partner for one evening, gentlemen," h

said sternly. "Come on, Jim; let's go tosupper."

And the thirsters saw them no more.



CHAPTER XVII

It was midnight and worse before th

ately belted knight of fortune had outwor

he hilarious and entered upon th

somnolent stage of the little journe

nsensate, and when the thing could b

done, Jeffard put him to bed with a pæa

of thanksgiving which was none the lesheartfelt for being unvocalized.

Having thus set his hand to Garvin'

plough, there was no alternative but to tur

he furrow to the end; wherefore, to guar

against surprises, he hid the boots of th

bottle-mad one, barricaded the door wit

his own bed, and lay down to doze wit



eyelids ajar. At least that was the aler

determination; but the event proved that h

was weary enough to sleep soundly an

ate, and it was seven o'clock, and thbreakfast caller was hammering on th

door, when he opened his eyes on the new

day. Naturally, his first thought was for hi

companion, and the sight of the empty ben the farther corner of the room brough

him broad awake and afoot at the sam

saltatory moment. The son of fortune wa

gone, and an open door into the adjoinin

room accounted for the manner of hi

going.

Five minutes later, picture an anxioubrother-keeper making pointed inquirie

of the day-clerk below stairs. Instan

question and answer fly back and fort



shuttle-wise, one may suppose, weavin

suspicion into a firm fabric of fact. Two

men whose names, or whose lates

aliases, were Howard and Lantermannhad occupied the room next to Jeffard's,—

quite chancefully, the clerk thinks. The

had left at an early hour; their call was fo

—one moment, and he (the clerk) wilascertain the exact time.

Whereupon one may fancy a

exasperated bearwarden cursinexactnesses and beating with impatient fis

upon the counter for the major fact. Th

fact, extorted at length, is simple an

conclusive. The two men had come dowsome time between five and six o'clock

with a third as a middle link in a chain o

ocked arms. One of the two had paid th



bill, and they had all departed; by way o

he bar-room and the side entrance, as th

clerk remembers.

Whereat Jeffard is moved to swea

strange oaths; is swearing them, in point o

fact, when the omnibus from an early trai

shunts its cargo of arrivals into the maientrance. Among the incomers is a bi

fellow with a drooping mustache an

square-set shoulders, who forthwith drop

his handbag and pounces upon Jeffarwith greetings boisterous.

"Well, I'll be shot!—or words to tha

effect" (hand-wringings and shoulderclappings). "Now where on top of God'

green earth did you tumble from? Begi

away back yonder and give an account o

yourself; or, hold on,—let me write m



name in the book and then you can tell m

while we eat. By Jove, old man! I'

foolishly glad to see you!"

Jeffard cut in quickly between th

arge-hearted protest and the signing of th

register.

"Just a second, Bartrow; let th

breakfast wait, and listen to me. I'm in n

end of a tangle, and you're the man of al

others to help me out if any one can. Dyou happen to know a fellow name

Garvin?"

"Don't I? 'Tennessee Jim, P. P.,'—that

stands for perennial prospector, yo

know. Sure. He's of the salt of the earth

rock salt, but full flavored. I know hi

ike a book, though I hadn't seen him for



dog's-age until—but go on."

Jeffard did go on, making the occasio

one of the few which seemed to justify thsetting aside of indirection.

"We were partners; we have been ou

ogether all summer. He has struck it rich

and has gone clean daft in the lilt of it.

can't get him sober long enough to do wha

may be necessary to secure the claim. Th

sharks are after him hot foot, and if thecan succeed in soaking the data out of him

hey will jump the claim before he can ge

t located and recorded."

Bartrow laughed. "That's just like Jim

ordinarily, he doesn't drink as muc

whiskey in a year as most men do in

week. But if that's your only grief you ca



come to breakfast with me and take you

ime about it. Later on, when we'v

smoked a few lines and brought up th

arrears of gossip, we'll hold a council owar and see what you're to do about th

potential bonanza."

"But I can't do anything; it's Garvin's, ell you."

"Well, you are partners in it, aren

you?"

Jeffard had another fight with a

ngrained reserve which was alway

blocking the way to directness an

prompting him to leave the major fac

unstated.

"We are not partners in this particula



claim. It's an old discovery of Garvin's

He drove the tunnel on it two years ag

and then abandoned it. He was looking fo

ellurides and opened a vein of free-golquartz without knowing what he ha

found."

"Then it's nobody's claim, as it standsor rather I should say it's anybody's. You

—or rather Garvin—will have to begin a

he beginning, just as if it were a new

deal; go back and post a notice on thground and then come out and record it

And if it's Garvin's claim, as you say, he'

got to do this in person. Nobody can do i

for him. You can't turn a wheel till you gehold of Jim, and that's what makes me sa

what I 'does.' Let's go in and eat."

"But, Dick; you don't understand"—



"Yes, I do; and I happen to know a

hing or two about this deal that you don't

You've got the whole forenoon before you

you are as safe as a house up to twelvo'clock. Come on."

"I say you don't understand. You called

t a 'potential bonanza' just now, meaninhat it wouldn't make so very muc

difference if it were never recorded. Bu

t's a bonanza in fact. If Rittenberge

knows what he is talking about, it is thbiggest strike of the year, by long odds.

don't know much about such things, but i

seems to me it ought to be secured at onc

and at all hazards."

"Rittenberger, you say?—the littl

Dutchman? You can bank on what he tells

you, every time. I didn't know you'd bee



o an assayer. What is the figure?"

"I don't know that. I left the sampl

with him last night, and was to call thimorning for the certificate. But the littl

man bubbled over at the mere sight of it."

"Good for old Jim! So much the better

evertheless, as I say, you've an eas

half-hour in which to square yourself wit

me over the ham and eggs and what-no

and plenty of time to do what there is to bdone afterward. You can't do anything bu

wait."

"Yes, I can; I can find Garvin and make

sure of him. Don't you see"—

"I see that I'll have to tell you all

know—and that's something you never d



for anybody—before you'll be reasonable

Listen, then: I saw your chump of a partne

ess than an hour ago. He was with two o

his old cronies, and all three of them werpretty well in the push, for this early in th

morning. They boarded the train I came up

on, and that is why I say you're safe til

noon. There is no train from the west tilwelve-seven. I know Jim pretty well, an

at his foolishest he never quite loses hi

grip. He had it in mind that he ought t

fight shy of something or somebody, and

he's given you the slip, dodged the enemy

and gone off on a three-handed spree all i

a bunch. There now, does that clear up thmystery?"

Jeffard had caught at the counter-rai

and was gradually petrifying. Here wa



he worst that could have befallen, an

Bartrow had suspected nothing more tha

a drunken man's frolic.

"Gone?—with two men, you say? Ca

you describe them?"

"Roughly, yes; they were Jim's kind—

miners or prospectors. One of them wa

all and thin and black, and the other wa

rather thick-set and red. The red one wa

he drunkest of the three."

"Dressed like miners?" Jeffard had t

fight for the "s's." His tongue was thic

and his lips dry.

"Sure."

"That settles it, Dick, definitely. Las

night those two fellows were dressed lik



men about town and wore diamonds

They've soaked their information out o

Garvin, and they are on their way to locat

hat claim."

It was Bartrow's turn to gasp an

stammer. "What?—locate the—Cæsar'

ghost, man, you're daft! They wouldn't takGarvin with them!"

"They would do just that. In the firs

place, with the most accurate descriptioof the locality that Garvin, drunk, coul

give them, there would be the uncertaint

of finding it without a guide. They know

hat they have left a sane man behind thewho can find the way back to the claim

and their only chance was to take Garvi

along, keeping him drunk enough to b

unsuspicious, and not too drunk to pilo



hem. Once on the ground ahead of me

and with Garvin in their power, they ca

do the worst."

Bartrow came alive to th

probabilities in the catching of a breath

"Which will be to kill Garvin safely out o

he way, post the claim, and snap theifingers at the world. Good Lord!—and

et 'em knock him down and drag him ou

under my very eyes! I'd ought to be shot."

"It's not your fault, Dick; it's mine.

saw what was in the wind last night, an

stuck to Garvin till I got him to bed. I wa

dog-tired,—we'd been tramping all day,—and I thought he was safe to sleep th

clock around. I hid his boots, dragged m

bed across the door, and went to sleep."



"You couldn't have done less—o

more. What happened?"

"This. Those two fellows had the roonext to us, and there was a door between

They slipped him out this morning before

was awake."

"Of course; all cut out and shaped u

beforehand. But, thank the Lord, there's

ghost of a chance yet. Where is th

claim?"

"It is three days' march a little to th

south of west, on the headwaters of

stream which flows into the Gunniso

River."

"And the nearest railroad point?"

"Is Aspen. If I remember correctly



Garvin said it was about twenty mile

across the range."

"Good. That accounts for the beginninof the race; they'll go to Aspen and tak

horses from there. But I don't understan

why they took the long line. There are tw

railroads to Aspen, and one of them is ahour and twenty minutes longer than th

other. That's your chance, and the onl

one,—to beat 'em to the end of th

railroad run. How are you fixed?"

"For money, you mean? I have th

wreck of a ten-dollar note and a hotel bil

o pay."

Bartrow spun around on his heel an

shot a sudden question at the hotel clerk

he answer to which was inaudible t



Jeffard. But Bartrow's rejoinder wa

explanatory.

"Rooms over the bank, you say? That'ucky." This to the clerk; and then to

Jeffard: "Come along with me; this is n

ime to stick at trifles. You've got to have

money, suddenly, and plenty of it."

But Jeffard hung back.

"What are you going to do, Dick?"

"Stake you and let you try for a specia

engine over the short line. Those fellow

ook the long way around, as I say,—why

don't know, because both trains leave ahe same time. The running time the wa

hey have gone is five hours and forty-fiv

minutes. By the other line it's only fou



hours and twenty-five minutes. Savez?"

"Yes, but"—

"Weed out the 'buts' and come alongWe're due to rout a man out of bed and

make him open a bank vault. I can't put m

hand into my pocket for you, as I'd like to

but I know a banker, and my credit'

good."

They found the cashier of th

Carbonate City National in the midst o

his toilet. He was an Eastern man o

conservative habit, but he was sufficientl

Occidentalized to grasp the main points i

Bartrow's terse narrative, and to rise t

he inexorable demands of the occasion.

"You know the rule, Mr. Bartrow,—



wo good names; and I don't know you

friend. But this seems to be an eighteen

carat emergency. Take that key and go

down the back way into the bank. You'lfind blank notes on the public desk. Mak

out your paper for what Mr. Jeffard wil

need, and I'll be with you in half

minute."

They found the way and the blank

which latter Bartrow hastily filled out

ndorsed, and handed to Jeffard fosignature. It was for five hundred dollars

and the proletary's hand shook when h

dipped the pen.

"It's too much," he protested; "I can

stand it, Dick. It is like putting a whette

sword into the hands of a madman."



That was his first reference to the pas

and its smirched record, and Bartrow

promptly toppled it into the abyss o

generalities.

"Same old hair-splitter, aren't you

What's the matter with you now?"

"You know—better than any one. I am

not to be trusted with any such sum o

money."

"Call it Garvin's, then. I don't know

how you feel toward Jim, but I've alway

found him a man to tie to."

A woman would have said that Jeffardurned aside to hide an upflash of emotion

hough a clot on the pen was the excuse

But it was the better part of him that mad



answer.

"I owe him my life—twice, Dick. B

all the known hypotheses of honor angratitude and common decency I ought t

be true to him now, in this his day o

helplessness. But when one has eaten an

drunk and slept with infamy"—

The cashier's step was on the stair, and

Bartrow cut in swiftly.

"Jeffard, you make me weary!—and

ncidentally, you're killing precious time

Can't you see that trust isn't a matter o

much or little? If you can't, why just nam

he amount for which you'd be tempted t

drop Garvin, and we'll cut under it so a

o be on the safe side."



"But I sha'n't need a fifth of this,

Jeffard objected, wavering.

"You are liable to need more. Youmust remember that ten minutes henc

you'll be trying to subsidize a railroa

company. Sign that note and quit quibblin

about it."

The thing was done, but when th

money had changed hands, Jeffar

quibbled again.

"If the worst comes, you can't afford t

pay that note, Bartrow; and my probabilit

hangs on a hundred hazards. What if

fail?"

The cashier had unlocked the stree

door for them, and Bartrow ran the splitte



of hairs out to the sidewalk.

"You're not going to fail if I can eve

succeed in getting you in motion. GooLord, man! can't you wake up and get

grip of the situation? It isn't the mer

saving or losing of the bonanza; it's shee

ife or death to Jim Garvin—and you sayou owe him. Here,—this cab is as goo

as any. Midland office, my man; half time

double fare. Don't spare the leather."

At eight-ten to the minute they wer

negotiating with the superintendent's chie

clerk for a special engine to Aspen

Whereupon, as is foreordained in succrises, difficulties multiplied themselves

while the office clock's decorou

pendulum ticked off the precious margi

of time. Bartrow fought this battle, fough



t single-handed and won; but that wa

because his weapon was invincible. Th

preliminary passage at arms vocalize

tself thus:—

The Clerk , mindful of his superior'

moods, and reflectively dubitant: "I'

afraid I haven't the authority. You wilhave to wait and see the superintendent

He'll be down at nine."

Bartrow: "Make it a dollar a mile."

The Clerk : "Can't be done; or, at least

can't do it. We're short of motive power

There isn't an engine fit for the run at thi

end of the division."

Bartrow: "Say a hundred and fifty fo

he trip."



The Clerk : "I'm afraid we couldn

make it, anyhow. We'd have to send a

caller after a crew, and"—

Bartrow, sticking to his single text lik

a phonograph set to repeat: "Call it

hundred and seventy-five."

The Clerk , in a desperate aside

"Heavens! I wish the old man woul

come!"—and aloud—"Say, I don't believ

we could better the passenger scheduleeven with a light engine. It's fast—fou

hours and twenty-five"—

Bartrow: "Make it two hundred."

Jeffard counted out the money whil

he office operator was calling the engine

dispatcher; and at eight-twenty they wer



pacing the station platform, waiting for th

ordered special. Bartrow looked at hi

watch.

"If you get away from here at eight

hirty, you'll have three hours and thirty

five minutes for the run, which is just fift

minutes better than the regular schedulet'll be nip and tuck, but if your engineer i

any good he'll make it. Do you know wha

o do when you reach Aspen?"

"Why, yes; I'll meet Garvin when hi

rain arrives, cut him out of the tangle wit

he sharks, get him on a horse and ride fo

ife across the range."

"That's the scheme. But what if th

other fellows object?"



Jeffard straightened himsel

unconsciously. "I'm not uncertain on tha

side; I can fight for it, if that is what yo

mean."

Bartrow looked him up and down wit

a smile which was grimly approbative

"Your summer's done you a whole lot ogood, Jeffard. You look like a grown

man."

"As I didn't when you last saw me. Bu'm afraid I am neither better nor worse

Dick,—morally."

"Nonsense! You can't help being one o

he other. And that reminds me: you

haven't accounted for yourself yet. Ca

you do it in the hollow of a minute?"



"Just about. Garvin picked me out o

he gutter and took me with him on thi

prospecting trip. That's all."

"But you ought to have left word wit

somebody. It was rough on your friends to

drop out as if you'd dodged th

undertaker."

"Who was there to care?"

"Well, I cared, for one; and then there

s Lansdale, and—and"—

"I know," said Jeffard humbly. He wa

hungry for news, but he went fasting on th

hinnest paring of inquiry. "Does shremember me yet?"

Bartrow nodded. "She's not of th

forgetting kind. I never go to Denver tha



she doesn't ask me if I've heard of you. Bu

hat's Connie Elliott, every day in th

week. She's got a heartful of her own jus

now, too, I take it, but that doesn't makany difference. She's everybody's sister

ust the same."

"A—a heartful of her own, you say? don't quite understand." Jeffard wa

staring intently down the empty railwa

yard, and the glistening lines of steel wer

blurred for him.

It was a situation for a bit of mercifu

diplomacy, but Bartrow the tactles

blundered on remorselessly.

"Why, yes,—with Lansdale, you know

don't know just how far it has gone, but i

were going to put money on it, I'd say sh



would let her life be shortened year fo

year if his could be spun out i

proportion."

Jeffard brought himself up with

savage turn. Who was he that he should b

privileged as those who are slain in an

honorable cause?

"Lansdale is no better, then?"

"I don't know. Sometimes he thinks h

s. But I guess it's written in the book; an

'm sorry—for his sake and hers. Ther

comes your automobile."

A big engine was clanking up throughe yard, but Jeffard did not turn to look a

t. He was wringing Bartrow's hand, an

rying vainly to think of some message t



send to the woman he loved. And at th

end of it, it went unsaid. One of the clerk

was waiting with the train-order when th

engine steamed up; and Jeffard was fain tclamber to his place in the cab, full to th

ips with tender embassies, which woul

by no means array themselves in words.

Bartrow waited till he could fling hi

God-speed up to the cab window. It too

he form of a parting injunction, an

neither of them suspected how much iwould involve.

"If you need backing in Aspen, look up

Mark Denby. He's a good friend of minean all-around business man, and

guardian angel to fellows with holes in th

ground and no ready money. Hunt him up

'll wire your introduction and have i



here ahead of you. Off you go—good luc

o you!"

And at the word the big engine liftets voice with a shout and a bell-clang

and shook itself free for the race.



CHAPTER XVIII

From Leadville to the point in the sky

ine of the Continental Divide where th

southern shoulder of Mount Massive dip

o Hagerman's Pass, the railway grad

climbs with the old Glenwood trail; an

when Malta was left behind and the ascen

fairly begun, Jeffard had fleeting glimpseof the road over which he and Garvin an

he patient burro had toiled eastward th

day before. From outer curves an

promontories doubled at storming speehe hoof-beaten trail flicked into view an

disappeared; and at times the brief vista

framed a reminiscent picture of two foot

weary pilgrims plodding doggedly in th



wake of a pack-laden ass.

It was impossible to conceive tha

hese phantoms belonged to to-day'yesterday. The crowding events of a few

hours had already pushed them into a far

away past; their entities were lost in th

kaleidoscopic whirl which haransformed the two men no less than thei

prefigurings. What had the foolish witlin

raving yonder on his way to despoilmen

and death with the two plunderers icommon with the self-contained son of th

wilderness, who had but yesterday bee

his brother's keeper in a world o

disheartenment? And this other; steamhurrying on his way to the same goal, wit

set jaw and tight lips and resolute purpos

n his eyes; by how much or little could h



be identified with the undeterminate one

whose leaden-footed trudgings th

storming locomotive was taking i

reverse?

Through some such cycle the wheel o

reflection rolled around to its startin

point in things present, and Jeffard awoko the moving realities of steep grades an

breath-cutting curves, yawning abysse

and hurtling cliffs, flitting backward to th

cacophone obbligato of the exhaust anhe clangorous cries of racking machinery

The engineer braced on his box was

muscular giant, with the jaw of

prizefighter, and steel-gray eyes that hadong since looked death out o

countenance. Jeffard took his measure i

an appraisive glance. "If your engineer i



good for anything," Bartrow had said; an

he glance slew the conditional doubt

What a fearless driver of fast locomotive

might do toward reversing the fate of thbesotted one would be done.

In the mean time the race was to th

udicious rather than to the swift. Thnterminable succession of grades an

curves clogged the wheels, and the grea

engine snorted and wallowed on it

upward way, slowing down at times untihe throbbing puffs of the escaping stea

seemed to beat no more than leisurel

minuet-time. But the climbing miles to th

summit of the pass were measuredoggedly, if not with speed. No triflin

advantage of tangent or "let-up" wa

passed without fresh spurrings of th



hrottle; and when the engine swept aroun

he long curve which is the approach t

he telegraph station at the summit tunne

he engineer glanced at his watch annodded across to his passenger.

"We're goin' to make it," he said, in

answer to Jeffard's shouted inquiry. "It'lbe a close call, but the old Ninety-seven'

a bird."

At the station the operator tossed elegram through the cab window. It wa

from Bartrow, and its major purpose wa

o give the figures of the assay, which h

had obtained from the little German. Thewere sufficiently significant, an

Bartrow's added urgings wer

unnecessary. "I'm standing over the trai

dispatcher here with a club," he wired



"Don't make any economical mistake a

your end of the string."

The engineer had finished oilinaround and had clambered back to hi

box. The water supply was replenished

and the fireman was uprearing the tank

spout. Jeffard crossed the footboard anhrust a little roll of bank notes betwee

he fingers of the brawny hand on th

hrottle lever. The engineer smoothed th

bills on his knee and wagged his head aone doubtful.

"That's pretty well up to a month'

pay."

"Well, you are going to earn it."

"Better keep it till I do," said th



stalwart one, offering it back.

"No; I'm not afraid to pay you i

advance. You are going to do your bestand I am not trying to bribe you. It's yours

whether we make it or not."

The big man thrust the bills into hi

pocket and opened the throttle. "You go

over there and sit down and hold your hai

on," he commanded. "I'm goin' to break th

record when we get out into daylight ohe other side o' the mountain."

Jeffard was still groping for hand an

foot holds on the fireman's seat when th

ocomotive rolled out of the wester

portal of the summit tunnel and the record

breaking began. Of the brain-benumbin

rush down the gorges of the Frying Pan o



a flying locomotive, one recalls but

confused memory; a phantasmagori

umble of cliffs and chasms, backward

flitting forests and gyrating mountaipeaks, trestles and culverts roarin

beneath the drumming wheels, the shriek

of the whistle and the intermittent strido

of escaping steam in the iron throat of thsafety-valve; a goblin dance of matter i

motion to a war blast of chaotic uproar

One sets the teeth to endure, and come

back to the cosmic point of view with

deep-drawn sigh of relief when the gobli

dance is over, and the engine halts at th

unction where the Aspen branch leavehe main line and crosses the Frying Pan t

begin the ascent of the Roaring Fork.

From this point the competing railway



parallel each other, and at the junction th

rains on either line are within whistl

call. To the engineer's question the

elegraph operator nodded an affirmative.

"Yep; she's just gone by. That's he

whistlin' for Emma now. What's the rush

—backed to beat her into Aspen?"

The engineer nodded in his turn, an

signed the order for the right of way on th

branch. A minute later the junction stationwas also a memory, and Jeffard wa

straining his eyes for a glimpse of th

passenger train on the other line. A shor

distance to the southward the rival linemeet and cross, exchanging river banks fo

he remainder of the run to Aspen. Th

passenger train was first at the crossing

and Jeffard had his glimpse as the engin



slackened speed. Not to lose a rail-lengt

n the hard-fought race, Jeffard's man ra

close to the crossing to await his turn, an

he light engine came to a stand withipistol shot of the train, which was slowl

clanking over the crossing-frogs. Jeffar

slipped from his seat and went over to th

engineer's gangway. It would be wortsomething if he could make sure tha

Garvin was on the train.

The espial was rewarded and punishen swift sequence. The trucks of th

smoking-car were jolting over th

crossing, and Jeffard saw the head an

shoulders of the insane one filling an opewindow. It was conspicuously evident tha

Garvin had drained the bottle to the frenz

mark. He was yelling like a lost soul, an



shaking impotent fists at the halted engine

Jeffard's eye measured the distance to th

moving car. It was but down on

embankment and up the other.

"That's my man," he said quickly to th

engineer. "Do you suppose I could make i

across?"

"Dead easy," was the reply; and

Jeffard swung down to the step of th

engine to drop off. The impulse saved hiife. As he quitted his hold a hairy ar

bared to the elbow was thrust out of th

window next to the yelling maniac. Ther

was a glint of sun-rays on polished metaand a pistol ball bit out the corner of th

cab under the engineer's arm-rest. Jeffar

desisted, and climbed to his place whe

he moving train gathered headway.



"Damn a crazy loon, anyway," said th

engineer, much as one might pass the tim

of day. "They'd ought to have sens

enough to take his gun away from him."

Jeffard explained in a sentence. "I

wasn't the crazy one; it was one of the tw

cut-throats who are kidnaping him—thfellows I'm trying to beat."

"The fellers you're goin' to beat,

corrected the engineer. "We'll head 'emoff now if the Ninety-seven goes in o

hree legs. The gall o' the cusses!—why

hey might ha' shot somebody!"

From the crossing in the lower valle

neither line encounters any specia

obstacle to speed; and under equa

conditions a locomotive race up th



Roaring Fork might be an affair o

seconds and rail lengths for the victor. Bu

he light engine with regardless order

speedily distanced the passenger traiwith stops to make; and when the smoke

of the mountain-girt town at the head of th

valley came in sight, the big enginee

pulled his watch and shouted triumphant—

"Eleven-forty,—and their time'

welve-five. We'll be twenty minutes tohe good in spite o'"—

It is conceivable that he would hav

used a strong figure, but the depravity ohings inanimate took the word out of hi

mouth. There was a tearing crash to th

rear; a shock as if a huge projectile ha

overtaken them; and the flying locomotiv



came to earth like an eagle with a mangle

wing. It was a broken axle under th

ender; a tested steel shaft which ha

outlived the pounding race across thmountains only to fall apart in the las

evel mile of the home stretch. Jeffar

clambered down with the enginemen, an

saw defeat, crushing and definite, in thwreck under the tender. But the bi

engineer was a man for a crisis. On

glance at the wreck sufficed, and th

fireman got his orders in shot-lik

sentences.

"Up with you, Tom, and give her the

water,—both injectors! Drop me thsledge, and get the pinch-bar under th

head o' that couplin'-pin when I drive i

up. Give her a scoop 'r two o' coa



—'nough to run in with. By cripes! we'l

beat 'em yet!"

The minced oath came from beneath thengine, and was punctuated by might

upward blows of the sledge hammer o

he coupling-pin, whose head was risin

by half-inch impulses from its seat in thfootplate. Jeffard saw and understood

The engineer meant to cut loose from th

wreck and finish the run without th

ender.

"Use me if you can," he offered. "Wha

shall I do?"

"Climb up there and help Tom with tha

bar. If we can pull this pin we're in it yet.

Jeffard laid hold with the fireman, an



ogether they pried at the reluctant pin. I

yielded at length, but when the enginee

had disconnected the water and air hos

and mounted to his place in the cab, throar of the oncoming passenger train wa

ajar in the air.

"You stay with the wreck, Tom, andflag it!" was the final command; and the

o Jeffard, as the engine shot away from it

disabled member: "How much time hav

you got to have?"

"I don't know. It depends upon how

much those fellows have found out, an

how drunk my partner is. At the worst, minute or two will serve."

It was still to be had, but in the ver

yard a thrown switch intervened, and th



small margin vanished. The passenge

rain was in, and Jeffard saw defeat again

but he dropped from the locomotive an

ran up the yard, forgetting in the heat of ihat he had elided two meals in th

wenty-four hours. The final dash brough

ts reward. He took the first vehicle tha

offered and reached the principal hotel iime to see Garvin and his keeper

descend from a carriage at the entrance.

"Yes, sir; in one moment. Those threefellows who came in just now? They'v

gone up to their room. Be with us ove

night?"

Thus the hotel clerk in answer t

Jeffard's gasping inquiry. To whom the

proletary, fighting desperately for som

semblance of equanimity:—



"I—I'll be here indefinitely; no, I hav

no baggage; I'll pay in advance. Can yo

give me the room next to these men? Th

crazy one is my partner, and I'll bresponsible for him."

The clerk hesitated, but Jeffard won hi

cause without knowing it by the necessarparade of bank-notes in the pecuniar

affair.

"Certainly, sir; the boy will show youup. You won't trouble him? All right

umber Nineteen—second floor, third

door to the right. Dinner is served, whe

you're ready."

If Jeffard had forgotten his direction

he uproar in Number Eighteen woul

have guided him. Garvin's voice, uplifte



n alternate malediction and maudli

bathos, jarred upon the air of the corridor

Jeffard paused. The long chase was ende

and only a pine door intervened betweepursuer and pursued. He laid a hand on th

doorknob. His breath came hard, and th

veins in his forehead were like knotte

whipcords. While he paused some brokebabblings from within wrought a swif

change in him. The knotted veins relaxe

and he laughed, not mirthfully but with

cynical upcurve of the lip. His han

slipped from the doorknob, and he stol

away, cat-like, to let himself noiselessl

nto the adjoining room.There was a door of communicatio

between the two rooms, bolted o

Jeffard's side, and with the knob removed



He went on his knees to the square hol

hrough the lock, but the angle of visio

ncluded no more than a blank patch of th

opposite wall. Then he laid his ear to thaperture. Out of the jangling discor

beyond the door came fragmentar

ucidities pieceable together into a stran

of sequence. Garvin had told all he knewor all he could remember, and the robber

paused at the trivial detail of the mos

feasible route over the mountains fro

Aspen. But to make sure, and possibly t

provide against the contingency of havin

o eliminate Garvin, some rude map wa

needed; and this one of the plunderers waevidently trying to draw under instruction

from the witling. At the mention of a map

Jeffard rummaged his pockets withou

aking his ear from the door. From one o



hem he drew a crumpled bit of paper

humbed and crease-broken. It wa

Garvin's map of the claim and the trai

passed over for inspection in the hollowof a certain lambent evening month

before and never returned.

Who shall say what was behind thnscrutable darkling of the eyes of hi

when he returned the paper to his pocke

and bent to listen with four senses lendin

heir acuteness to the fifth? Was it asoftening memory of the loving-kindnesse

of one James Garvin to a man soul-sic

and body-wasted, snatched as a charre

brand out of a fire of his own kindling? Owas it the stirring of a ruthless devil o

self; a devil never more than dormant i

any heart insurgent; a fell demon of the pi



whose arousing waits only upo

opportunity, whose power is to transfor

pity into remorseless ingratitude and rut

nto relentless greed? There was room fohe alternative.

"Here; take another nip o' this and pul

yourself together,"—it was the voice ohe hawk-faced one. "If you wasn't such

howlin' idiot you'd see that we're the onl

friends you've got. I keep a-tellin' you tha

hat slick pardner o' yours was on thawild ingine, and if you don't sink a shaf

on your wits he's a-goin' to do you up

cold!"

The appeal brought blood as a blow

The crash of an overturned chair wa

followed by an explosion of cursings, th

outcries of a soul in torment. And whe



he madman choked in the fullness of it,

voice said: "Pick up that chair, Pete, and

pull him down. He'll be seein' things in

minute, and that'll settle the wholshootin'-match." There was a struggl

short but violent, the jar of a forcibl

downsetting, and a sound as of on

flinging his arms abroad upon the tableAfter which the tormented one becam

brokenly articulate. What he said i

unrecordable. With maudlin oath and

hick-tongued ravings he rehearsed hi

fancied wrongs and breathed fort

promises of vengeance, calling down th

wrath of the spheres upon one HenrJeffard and his posterity to the third an

fourth generation.

"That's all right; I'd kill him on sight, i



was you. But just now you're killin' time

nstid. First you know, he'll be on his way

acrost the range, and then where'll you be

You don't even know that he didn't locatehat claim before you came out. Git dow

o business and tell us where that valle

s, if you ever knowed. You said it was on

a creek"—

Jeffard rose and went softly across th

room to sit on the edge of the bed. Th

unfathomable light was still in his eyesand his thought wrought itself into words.

"It's done; they'll wring it out of him

and then fling him aside like so mucoffal. I wonder if it is worth while to tr

o save it—for him. What good would i

do him?—or, rather, what evil thing i

here that it wouldn't make possible fo



him? What devil of curiosity led me t

open this Pandora-box of responsibility

For I am responsible, first for the finding

and now for the keeping, and hereafter fowhat shall come of it. That is, if I save i

—for him." He got upon his feet an

iptoed back to the door o

communication, listening once more. Thclamor had quieted down, and th

scratching of a pen gnawed the silence

Then came the voice of the hawk-face

one.

"There she is; you sign your name righ

here and it'll be all right. It's the onl

way; you're too drunk to pull strings withat pardner o' yours, and we're goin' t

stand by you, see? All we want is th

authority."



Jeffard started back and made as if h

would fling himself against the locke

door. Then he thought better of it.

"That simplifies it," he mused, pacin

up and down with noiseless steps. "He ha

signed away whatever right he had, an

now it's my turn. If I pay the price I cacheckmate them. But can I pay the price

Surely, if any man can; I, who hav

deliberately turned my back upon th

world's approval for a much less thingAnd in the end the money will atone."

A stir in the adjoining roo

admonished him that the time for actiohad come. He wheeled quickly and le

himself into the corridor. A key was

rattling in the lock of Number Eighteen a

he passed, but he found the stair before th



bolt was shot. In the lobby he stopped t

ask a hurried question of a man who wa

opening his mail at the public writing

able. The question was answered curtlybut the man left his letters and went to th

door to point the reply.

"I see it; thank you," said Jeffard; anwent his way rapidly, with now and then

glance behind him as if to make sure tha

he was not followed.

In a few minutes he came back

walking slowly, with his head down and

his hands in the pockets of the brown duc

miner's coat. There was a knot of loungern front of the hotel, gathered about th

door and peering in; a group of curiou

ones, which grew by accretions from th

by-passers. A disturbance of some sor



was afoot in the lobby—two persuasiv

ones struggling peaceably with a drunke

man, while the bystanders looked on wit

smiles pitying or cynical, each after hikind.

Jeffard pushed into the circle, an

hose who remarked him said that hseemed to see nothing but the strugglin

rio. Some of the onlookers were nea

enough to hear what he said to the tw

who were not drunk.

"The game is closed, gentlemen, an

you are out of it. When you get on th

ground you will find the claim located—imy name."

Two right hands made simultaneou

backward dips, and two potentia



murderers apparently realized the folly o

t at the same instant. But the drunken on

spun around with his face ablaze, a fierce

madness than that of drink burning in hibloodshot eyes.

"You? You played the sneak an

ocated hit behind my back? In your named' ye say?—your name? Well, by God

you hain't got a name!"

A pistol cracked with the oath, andJeffard put his hands to his head an

pitched forward. The crowd fell bac

aghast, to surge inward again with a rus

when the reaction came. Then a shout waraised at the door, and the haggard

manslayer, cured now of all madness sav

hat of fear, burst through the inpressin

hrong and disappeared.



CHAPTER XIX

Even in a Colorado mining town

shooting affray at midday in the lobby o

he principal hotel creates more or less o

a sensation, and it was fully fiftee

minutes before the buzz of public commen

subsided sufficiently to suffer Mr. Mar

Denby to go back to his letters anelegrams. He had made one in the circl

of onlookers; had seen and heard, and

now that the wounded man had bee

carried to his room and cared for, and thhunt was up and afield for the would-b

murderer, was willing to forget. But

raveling salesman at the opposit

blotting-pad must needs keep the poo



astir.

"Say, wasn't that the most cold

blooded thing you ever saw? 'Y gad! I'vheard that these Western towns were

fearfully tough, but I had no idea a ma

wouldn't be safe to sit down and write hi

house in the lobby of a decent hotel. 'Pomy word, I actually heard the 'zip' of tha

bullet!"

Denby looked across at the hinderer ooblivion, and remembered that th

salesman had been well to the rear of th

battery in action. Wherefore he said, wit

a touch of the gravest irony: "You'll geused to it, after a bit. Suppose you take

spin around the block in the open air; tha

will doubtless steady your nerves so yo

can write the house without a quiver."



"Think it would? I believe I'll try it;

can't hold a pen still to save my life. Bu

say, I might happen to run up against tha

fellow, and he might recognize me andhink I was after him."

"In which case he would in al

probability draw and quarter you and takyour scalp for a memento. On secon

hought, I don't know but you're safe

where you are."

The mere suggestion was perspiratory

and the traveling man mopped his face

But there are occasions when one mus

alk or burst, and presently he began again

"Say, I suppose they'll lynch tha

fellow if they catch him, won't they?"



The badgered one came to attentio

with a fine-lined frown of annoyanc

radiating fan-like above his eyes. He wa

of the stuff of which man-masters armade; a well-knit figure of a man, rathe

under than over the average of height an

breadth, but so fairly proportioned as t

give the impression of unmeasurestrength in reserve,—the strength of stee

under silk. His face was bronzed with th

sun-stain of the altitudes, but it was a

smooth as a child's, and beardless, wit

hin lips and masterful eyes of the sort tha

can look unmoved upon things unnamable

"Lynch him? Oh, no; you do us anjustice," he said, and the tone was quit

as level as the eye-volley. "We don't lync

people out here for shooting,—only fo



alking too much."

Whereat one may picture unacclimate

oquacity gasping and silenced, with thowner of the "Chincapin" and other liste

properties going on to read his letters an

elegrams in peace. The process furthere

tself in the sequence of well-orderedispatch until a message, damp from th

copying-press and dated at Leadville

came to the surface. It covered two of th

yellow sheets in the spacious handwritinof the receiving operator, and Denby read

t twice, and yet once again, before layin

t aside. Whatever it was, it was no

suffered to interrupt the orderly sequencof things; and Denby had read the last o

he letters before he held up a summonin

finger for a bell-boy.



"Go and ask the clerk the name of th

man who was shot, will you?"

The information came in two wordsand the querist gathered up his papers an

sent the boy for his room key. At the

stairhead he met the surgeon and stoppe

him to ask about the wounded man.

"How are you, Doctor? What is th

verdict? Is there a fighting chance fo

him?"

"Oh, yes; much more than that. It isn

as bad as it might have been; the skull isn

fractured. But it was enough to knock hi

out under the circumstances. He ha

skipped two or three meals, he tells me

and was under a pretty tense strain o

excitement."



"Then he is conscious?"

The physician laughed. "Very much so

He is sitting up to take my prescription,—which was a square meal. Whatever th

strain was, it isn't off yet. He insists tha

he must mount and ride this afternoon if h

has to be lashed in the saddle; has alreadordered a horse, in fact. He is plucky."

"Then he is able to talk business,

suppose."

"Able, yes; but if you can get anythin

out of him, you'll do better than I could

He won't talk,—won't even tell what th

row was about."

"Won't he?" The man of affairs crossed

he corridor and tapped on the door o



umber Nineteen. There was no response

and he turned the knob and entered. Th

shades were drawn and there was

cleanly odor of aseptics in the air of thdarkened room. The wounded man wa

propped among pillows on the bed, with

well-furnished tea-tray on his knees. H

gave prompt evidence of his ability talk.

"Back again, are you? I told you I ha

nothing to say for publication, and I meant." This wrathfully; then he discovered hi

mistake, but the tone of the careles

apology was scarcely more conciliatory

"Oh—excuse me. I thought it was threporter."

Bartrow's correspondent found a chai

and introduced himself with charitabl



directness. "My name is Denby. I am her

because Mr. Richard Bartrow wires me to

ook you up."

Jeffard delayed the knife and fork pla

ong enough to say: "Denby?—oh, yes;

remember. Thank you," and there th

nterview bade fair to die of inanitionJeffard went on with his dinner as on

who eats to live; and Denby tilted hi

chair gently and studied his man as wel

as he might in the twilight of the drawshades. After a time, he said:—

"Bartrow bespeaks my help for you

He says your affair may need expeditingdoes it?"

Jeffard's rejoinder was almos

antagonistic. "How much do you know o



he affair?"

"What the whole town knows by thi

ime—added to what little Bartrow tellme in his wire. You or your partner have

stumbled upon an abandoned claim whic

promises to be a bonanza. One of you—

public rumor is a little uncertain as twhich one—tried to euchre the other; an

t seems that you have won in the race t

he Recorder's office, and have come ou

of it alive. Is that the summary?"

He called it public rumor, but it wa

rather a shrewd guess. Jeffard did no

hasten to confirm it. On the contrary, hireply was evasive.

"You may call it an hypothesis—a

working hypothesis, if you choose. Wha



hen?"

The promoter was not of those wh

swerve from conclusions. "It follows thayou are a stout fighter, and a man to b

helped, or a very great rascal," he sai

coolly.

Again the knife and fork paused, an

he wounded man's gaze was at least a

steady as that of his conditional accuser

"It may simplify matters, Mr. Denby, if say that I expect nothing from publi

rumor."

The mine-owner shrugged hi

shoulders as an unwilling arbiter wh

would fain wash his hands of the ethica

entanglement if he could.



"It's your own affair, of course,—th

public opinion part of it. But it may prov

o be worth your while not to ignore th

suffrages of those who make and unmakreputations."

"Why?"

"Because you will need capital,—

honest capital,—and"—

He left the sentence in the air, and

Jeffard brought it down with a cynica

stonecast.

"And, under the circumstances, a

honest capitalist might hesitate, you woulsay. Possibly; but capital, as I know it, i

not so discriminating when the lega

requirements are satisfied. There will b



no question of ownership involved in th

development of the 'Midas.'"

"Legal ownership, you mean?""Legal or otherwise. When the time fo

nvestment comes, I shall be abundantl

able to assure the capitalist."

"To guarantee the investment

doubtless. But capital is not always a

unscrupulous as you seem to think."

"No?"—the tilt of the negative wa

almost aggressive. "There are borrower

and borrowers, Mr. Denby. It's the man

without collateral who is constrained tmake a confidant of his banker."

The blue-gray eyes of the master o

men looked their levelest, and the clean



shaven face was shrewdly inscrutable

"Pardon me, Mr. Jeffard, but there are me

who couldn't borrow with the Orizab

behind them."

Jeffard parried the eye-thrust, an

brushed the generalities aside in

sentence.

"All of which is beside the mark, and

have neither the strength nor th

nclination to flail it out with you. As yosay, I shall need capital—yours o

another's. State the case—yours, or mine

—in so many words, if you please."

"Briefly, then: the equity in this affai

ies between you and the man who tried t

kill you. I mean by this that the bonanza i

either yours or his. If it were a partnership



discovery there would have been n

chance for one of you to overreach th

other. You'll hardly deny that there was a

sharp fight for possession: you botadvertised that fact pretty liberally."

Jeffard was listening with indifference

real or feigned, and he neither denied noaffirmed. "Go on."

"From the point of view of a

unprejudiced observer the evidence iagainst your partner. He comes here drun

and abusive, in company with two me

whose faces would condemn the

anywhere, and squanders his lead in thrace in a supplementary carouse. And

ittle later, when he finds that you hav

outclassed him, he shoots you down like

dog in a fit of drunken fury. To an



mpartial onlooker the inference is fairl

obvious."

"And that is?"— "That your partner is the scoundrel; tha

he discovery is yours, and that he and hi

accomplices were trying to rob you.

don't mind saying that this is my ow

nference, but I shall be glad to have i

confirmed."

Jeffard looked up quickly. "The

Bartrow hasn't told you"—

"Bartrow's message was merel

ntroductory; two pages of eulogy, in factas any friendly office of Dick's is bound t

be. He doesn't go into details."

Jeffard put the tea-tray aside and wit



t the air of abstraction, and in a bette

ight his interlocutor would not hav

failed to remark the swift change fro

dubiety to assurance.

"Will you bear with me, Mr. Denby, i

say that your methods are a littl

ndirect? You say that the evidence isagainst James Garvin, and yet you give m

o understand that it will be well if I ca

clear myself."

"Exactly; a word of assurance i

sometimes worth many deductions."

"But if, for reasons of my own, I refus

o say the word?"

The promoter's shrug was barel

perceptible. "I don't see why you shoul



refuse."

Jeffard went silent at that, lying bac

with closed eyes and no more than witching of the lips to show that he wa

not asleep. After what seemed a

nterminable interval to the mine-owner

he said:—

"I do refuse, for the present. A few

days later, when I have done what I hav

o do, there will be time enough to discusways and means—and ethics, if you stil

feel inclined that way. May I trouble yo

o run that window-shade up?" He wa

sitting on the edge of the bed and gropinbeneath it for his shoes.

The promoter admitted the light an

ventured a question.



"What are you going to do?"

"Get on the ground with the leas

possible delay."The shoes were found, but when th

wounded one bent to lace them the roo

spun around and he would have fallen i

Denby had not caught him.

"You're not fit," said the master of men

not unsympathetically. "You couldn't sit a

horse if your life depended upon it."

"I must; therefore I can and will,

Jeffard asserted, with fine determination

"Be good enough to ask the bell-boy tcome in and lace my shoes."

The man with a mission to compe

other men smiled. His fetish wa



ndomitable resolution, for himself first

and afterward for those who deserved

and here was a man who, whatever hi

acks and havings in the ethical field, waat least courageous. Having admitted s

much, the promoter went down on on

knee to lace the courageous one's shoes

dissuading him, meanwhile.

"You can't go to-day; the wound-feve

will come on presently, and you'll be

sick man. Let it rest a while. Having puhimself on the criminal side of the fenc

by trying to kill you, your partner wil

hardly dare to jump the claim in person

he will have to find a proxy, and that wilask for time,—more time than the sheriff

dodging will permit."

"His proxies are here, and they will ac



without instructions from him," sai

Jeffard, with his hands to his head and hi

eeth set to keep the words from shapin

hemselves into a groan.

"You mean the two who were with

him?"

"Yes. So far as the present fight i

concerned, the three are one; and two o

hem are still free to act."

"So?—that's different." Denby finishe

ying the second shoe and rose to begi

measuring a sentinel's beat between th

window and the door, pacing evenly wit

his brows knitted and his hands claspe

behind him. "You know what to expect

hen?"



"I know that I have been twice shot a

within the past two hours, and that th

moments are golden."

"But you are in no condition to go i

and hold it alone! You'll have to mee

force with force. You ought to have a

east three or four good men with you."

"What I have to do presupposes a clea

field," said Jeffard guardedly. "If it should

come to blows, the discussion of—oethics will be indefinitely postponed, I'

afraid."

"Humph! I suppose your reasons are a

strong as your obstinacy. How far is it to

your claim?"

"I don't know the exact distance; abou



wenty miles, I believe. But there is

mountain range intervening."

"You can't ride it in your presencondition; it's a sheer physica

mpossibility."

"I shall ride it."

"What is the use of being an ass?

demanded the master of men, losin

patience for once in a way. "Don't you se

you can't stand alone?"

Jeffard struggled to his feet an

wavered across the room to a chair

Denby laughed,—a quiet little chuckle oappreciation.

"I didn't mean literally; I meant in th

business affair. You'll have to have help



from the start. That means that you wil

have to trust some one. From what you sa

t is evident that there will be a

mmediate attempt made to jump thclaim; an attempt which will be afoot an

on the ground long before you can ge

here. Let us be reasonable and take hol

of the live facts. I have a man here who iboth capable and trustworthy. Let me send

him in with a sufficient force to stand of

he jumpers until you are able to hold you

own."

Jeffard shook his head. "I can't do it

unreasonable as it may seem. I must g

first and alone. That is another mysteryyou will say, but I can't help it. If I wi

hrough it alive I shall be here again in

day or two, ready to talk business. Mor



han that I can't say now."

Denby's thin lips came together in

straight line, with a click of the white teetbehind them. "As you please. I am no

going about to prove to you that you woul

ose nothing by trusting me from the start

Can I do anything toward helping yooff?"

"Yes; you can give me your shoulde

down the stair and a lift into the saddle."

The little journey to the ground floo

was made in silence. When they wer

passing the desk the clerk said: "You

horse is at the door, Mr. Jeffard. I was jus

about to send up word. Are you feelin

better?"



"I am all right." He leaned heavily o

he counter and paid his bill. "Did th

iveryman leave any message?"

"No, only to say that he has stocked th

saddle-bags as you directed."

The personally conducted journey wen

on to the sidewalk, and Denby heaved th

wounded one into the saddle, steadyin

him therein till the vertigo loosed its hold

"Anything else you can delegate?"

"No, thank you; nothing that I think of."

"You are still determined to go?"

"Quite determined."

"Well, you are a stubborn madman, and



rather like you for it; that's all I have t

say. Good luck to you."

Jeffard gathered the reins and sareflective what time the broncho sniffe

he cool breeze pouring down from th

higher slopes of the western range. Whe

he horse would have set out, Jeffarrestrained him yet another moment.

"You intimated a few minutes ago that

was afraid to trust you, Mr. Denby," hesaid, picking and choosing among th

words as one who has a difficult course t

steer. "I do trust you as far as I can trus

any one at the present crisis, and I'll provt." He drew a crumpled bit of paper fro

his pocket, and smoothed it upon th

pommel of the saddle. "Here is a roug

map of the claim and the trails by which i



may be reached. If I'm not back in Aspe

n three days, fit out your expedition an

go in prepared to take and hold th

property. The men you will find ipossession will be robbers,—an

murderers,—and you may have to fight fo

t; but that won't matter. In the right-hand

unnel wall, a few feet from the entranceyou will see a crevice where the dynamit

was kept. In the bottom of that crevic

you'll find my last will and testament, an

'm going to believe that you will carry ou

ts provisions to the letter."

The promoter's smile was of grimness

with quarterings of approval.

"Which is to say that you'll be safel

dead and buried. Barring your idioti

stubbornness, you are a man after my ow



heart, Mr. Jeffard, and I'll willingly b

your executor. Are you armed?"

"No; I told you it would depend upospeed. I have no weapons."

"What! And you are going on a forlor

hope with an even chance of having t

fight for your life? Wait a minute."

He ran back into the hotel, coming ou

again presently with a repeating rifle an

a well-filled cartridge belt. "There is suc

a thing as cold nerve carried to th

vanishing point in foolhardiness, Mr

Jeffard," he said. "Put this belt on while

sling the rifle under the saddle-flap. Ca

you shoot straight?"

"It is extremely doubtful. A little targe



practice as a boy"—

"Target practice!—and you may have

o stand off a gang of desperadoes whcan clip coins at a hundred yards! You'd

better reconsider and give me time t

organize a posse."

"No; thank you—for that an

everything else. Good-by."

Denby stood on the curb and watche

his man ride slowly up the street and tak

he turn toward the southern mountains

After which he went back to his place a

he public writing-table in the lobby

picking up the hotel stenographer on th

way. For a preoccupied half-hour h

dictated steadily, and when the last lette

was answered got up to pace out th



ranscribing interval. In the midst of it h

drifted out to the sidewalk and stoo

staring absently up the street, as, an hou

earlier, he had gazed after the lesseninfigure of the obstinate one. But this tim

here were two horsemen in the field o

vision wending their way leisurely to th

street-end. Denby, thinking pointedly oother things, saw them and saw them no

but when they, too, took the turn to th

southward, he came alive to th

probabilities in the heart of an instant.

"By all that's good!—they're after him

as sure as fate!" he muttered; and a littl

ater he was quizzing the proprietor of ivery stable around the corner.

"Do you know those two fellows wh

have just left, Thompson?"



"You bet I don't; and I made 'em put up

he collateral for the whole outfit befor

hey got away."

"Where did you say they were going?"

"Didn't say, did I? But somewheres up

Jackfoot Gulch was what they told me."

"H'm; that is east. And just now the

are riding in another direction. You sold

hem the horses, you say?"

The man grinned. "Temp'rarily. I'll tak

em back at the same price, less the tariff

f I ever see 'em again. I ain't takin' n

chances on stray strangers with any sucookin'-glass-bustin' faces as they've got

ot much, Mary Ann."

"It is well to be careful. Have you see



my man Donald since dinner?"

"Yes; he was here just now and said

he'd be back again. Want him?"Denby looked at his watch. "Yes. If he

doesn't come back within five minutes

send some of the boys out to hunt him up

Tell him to outfit for himself and me fo

wo days, and to be at the hotel at three

sharp. Give him the best horses you ca

ay your hands on."

"Always yours to command, Mr

Denby. Anything else?"

"That's all."

The promoter left the stable an

walked quickly to the hotel. At th

entrance he met an acquaintance an



stopped to pass the time of day.

"How are you, Roberts?—By the way

you are just the man I wanted to see; saveme a trip to the Court House. Did a fellow

named Jeffard, J-e-f-f-a-r-d, file a notic

and affidavit on a claim called the 'Midas

ust after dinner?"

"No. He came over to ask me if ther

was any way in which he could secur

himself. It seems that he neglected to posa notice on the claim before coming ou

with his samples,—why, he didn

explain."

Denby nodded and went on, talking t

himself. "So!—that's his little mystery, i

t? The 'Midas' isn't located yet, and unti

he gets that notice posted and recorded



t's anybody's bonanza. I hope Donald ca

pick up the trail and follow it. If he can'

here'll be one plucky fellow less in th

world, and two more thugs to be hangedater on."



CHAPTER XX

A topographical map of that portion o

he Saguache known as the Elk Mountai

Range—the spur which forms th

watershed between the Gunnison and th

Grand—will include a primeval valle

gashing the range southeastward fro

Tourtelotte on the Ashcroft trail, andheading fifteen miles farthe

wildernessward in a windswept pas

across the summit of the watershed. It

watercourse, a tumbling torrent fed by thmelting snows in the higher gulches, is

ributary of the Roaring Fork; and

disused pack-trail, which once served

scattered pioneer corps of prospectors



climbs by tortuous stages to th

windswept pass, now swerving from ban

o bank of the stream, and now heading

ateral gulch or crossing the point of barrier spur.

It is a crystalline afternoon in mid

autumn. Indian summer on the higplateaus of the continent's crest there i

none, but instead, a breathing space o

ife-giving days, with the bouquet of fin

old wine in the keen-edged air, and ofrosty nights when the stars swing clear i

llimitable space. Positive coloring, othe

han the sombre greens of pine and fir, i

acking. The season of bursting buds anquickening leaf tints is over, and wha

ittle deciduous vegetation the altitud

permits is present only in twig tracerie



and sun-cured range grass. In the heart o

he valley the heights are heavily wooded

and the sombre greens wall out the worl

o the sky-line; but farther on bald slopeand ridges stretch away above the pine

and firs, and the blue arch of th

firmament springs clear from snow

capped abutments of fallow dun anweathered gray.

In the upper levels of the valley th

disused trail leaves the stream and begino climb by loops and zigzags to the pass

On the reverse curve of one of the loops—

he last but one in the upward path—

solitary horseman sends his mounrecklessly onward, heedless alike o

stones of stumbling and the breath-cuttin

steepness of the way. His head i



bandaged, and he rides loose in the saddl

ike a drunken man, swaying and reeling

but evermore urging the horse by wor

and blow and the drumming of unspurreheels. His feet are thrust far into th

stirrups, and at every fresh vantage poin

he steadies himself by pommel and cantl

o scan the backward windings of the traiA man riding desperately for his life and

against time, with a handicap of physica

unfitness, one would say; but there woul

seem to be fierce determination in th

unrelenting onpush, as if wounds an

weariness were as yet no more than spur

o goad and whips to drive.The reverse curve of the loop ends o

he crest of the last of the barrier spurs

and at the crown of the ascent the fores



hins to right and left, opening a longe

backward vista. On the bare summit th

rider turns once more in his saddle, an

he rearward glance becomes a steadeye-sweep. In the bight of the loop whic

he has just traversed the trail swings clea

of the gulch timber, and while he gaze

wo dark objects advancing abreast analternately rising and falling to a distance

softened staccato of pounding hoofs cros

he open space and double the loop. Th

wounded one measures his lead. For al

his spurrings the distance is decreasing

and a hasty survey of the trail ahead is no

reassuring. From the bald summit of thspur the bridle path winds around the hea

of another gulch, and the approach to th

pass on the farther side is a snow-banke

ncline, above timber line, uncovered, an



within easy rifle-shot of the hill o

reconnaissance. What will befall i

measurably certain. If he attempts to hea

he traversing ravine on the trail, hipursuers will reach the bald summit, wai

and pick him off at their leisure while h

s scaling the opposite snowbank.

At the second glance a dubiou

alternative offers. The gorge in the direc

ine may not prove impassable; there is

slender chance that one may push straighacross and up the opposing slope to th

pass before the guns of the enemy can b

brought into position. Wherefore he send

he horse at a reckless gallop down thdescent to the gorge, making shift to clin

with knee and heel while he disengages

rifle from its sling under the saddle-flap



and fills its magazine with cartridges fro

a belt at his waist.

At the bottom of the ravine thalternative vanishes; becomes a thin

nexistent, in fact. The gorge in its lowe

ength is a canyoned slit, a barrier to b

passed only by creatures with wings. Toreturn is to meet his pursuers on the bal

summit of the spur; to hesitate is equall

hazardous. The horse obeys the sudde

wrenching of the rein, spins as on a pivotand darts away up the canyon brink

Fortunately, the timber is sparse, and

uckily again, a practicable crossing i

found well within the longer detour traceby the trail. For the second time that day i

s a race to the swift; and, as before, a

accident comes between. Horse and ma



are across the ravine, are clear of th

stunted firs, are mounting the final snow

banked incline to the pass with no mor

han a trooper's dash between them ansafety, when the sure-footed beast slips on

he packed snow of the trail, and hors

and man roll together to the bottom of th

declivity.

A few hours earlier this man had been

he football of circumstances, tosse

hither and yon as the buffetings of chancmight impel him. But the pregnant hour

have wrought a curious change in him, fo

better or worse, and before the breath

cutting plunge is checked he is free of thstruggling horse and is kicking it to its fee

o mount and ride again, charging the stee

uprising with plying lash and diggin



heels and shouts of encouragement. Ten

seconds later the trail is regained and th

summit of the pass cuts the sky-line abov

him. Ten other flying leaps and a resoluteman may hold an army at bay. But in th

midst of them comes a clatter of hoofs o

he rocky headland across the gulch, and

nerve-melting instant wherein the hoofbeats cease and the bleak heights giv

back a muffled echo in the rarefied air

The hunted one bends to the saddle-horn a

he crack of the rifle, and the bullet sing

high. A second is better aimed, and at the

shrill hiss of it the snorting horse flatten

ts ears and lunges at the ascent witflagging powers fear-revived. A

scrambling bound or two and the fina

height is gained, but in the pivoting instan

between danger and safety a third bulle



scores the horse's back and embeds itsel

n the cantle of the saddle with

benumbing shock to the rider.

But by this the fugitive is fair Berserk

mad, and those who would stay him mus

shoot to kill. Once out of range beyond th

crest of the pass, he drags the tremblinhorse to its haunches and whips dow

from the saddle, the wine of battle singin

n his veins and red wrath answering fo

physical fitness. A hasty glance to makesure that the broncho's wound is no

disabling, and he is back at the summit o

he pass, sheltering himself behind a roc

and sending shot after shot across thravine at his assailants. The fusillade i

harmless; wounds, mad gallops, and re

wrath being easily subversive of accurac



n target practice; but it has the effect o

sending the enemy to the rear in discree

haste, with the dropping shots beatin

quick time for the double quartette orampling hoofs as the twain gallop out o

range behind the bald headland.

For a resolute half-hour, while thundertow of the ebbing minutes steadil

undermines the props and shores set up b

Berserk wrath, the solitary rifleman lie

watchful and vigilant. Thrice in thanterval have the attackers rallied; once i

a desperate charge to gain the cover of th

imber on the canyon's brink, and twice i

equally desperate efforts to turn thrifleman's position by following th

ooping of the trail. Notwithstanding th

bad marksmanship of the garrison th



position has proved—still proves—

mpregnable; and the end of the half-hou

eaguer finds the intrenched one secure i

his position, with the enemy in permanencheck, and only his own waning strengt

o warn him that the pass cannot be hel

ndefinitely.

But this warning is imperative, as i

hat other of the fast westering sun; an

when a movement on the opposite heigh

gives him one more chance to announcvolley-wise that the pass is still manned

he retreats swiftly, remounts after mor

han one exhaustive effort, and canter

down the farther windings of the trail inta valley shut in on all sides by snow

coifed sentinel mountains, and with

brawling stream plunging through it



midst; into this valley and down the lengt

of it to a narrowing of the stream path

where a rude cabin, with its door hangin

awry, looks across from the heel of thwestern cliff to the gray dump of a tunnel

opening in the opposite mountain side.

The sun has already set for the loweslopes of the shut-in valley, and the frosty

breath of the snow-capped sentinel peak

s in the air. At the door of the cabin the

winner in the desperate race slides frohe saddle. His knees are quaking, an

because of them he stumbles and fall

over the log doorstone, cursing hi

helplessness in the jolt of it. But therremains much to be done, and the sunse

glories are changing from crimson an

dusky gold on the snow-caps to roya



purple in the shadow of the western cliff.

With many slippings and stumblings h

crosses the foot-log and climbs to thevel of the tunnel-opening opposite

constraining the unwilling horse to follow

With a stone for a hammer he tacks

square of paper on one of the struts of thimbered entrance; and after anothe

struggle feebly fierce the horse is dragge

nto the low-browed cavern and tethere

out of harm's way. By the leaden-footedstep of the man one would say that the las

reserves of determination have bee

called in and are far spent; but he will no

desist. With four stakes taken from thheap of wooden treenails used in th

unnel timbering he drags himself fro

corner to corner of the claim, pacing it



boundaries and marking the points o

ntersection with dogged exactness. Whe

he final stake is driven he can no longe

stand upright, and is fain to win back the tunnel on hands and knees with groan

and futile tooth-gnashings.

But the aftermath of the task still waitsshall wait until he has barricaded th

unnel's mouth with an up-piling o

imbers, fragments of rock, odds and end

movable, with a counterscarp of loosearth to make it bullet-proof—the las

scraped up with bleeding hands from th

débris at the head of the dump.

This done, he drags himself over th

barricade, finds the saddle-bags again

and strikes a light. The candle flame is bu

a yellow puncture in the thick gloom of th



unnel, but it serves his purpose, which i

o scrawl a few words on a blank page o

an engineer's note-book,—sole reminde

of the thrifty forecast of saner days beyonhe descent into the nether depths. A

mprecation bubbles up to punctuate th

signature; a pointless cursing, which is n

more than a verbal mask for a groaextorted by the agony of the effort to guid

he pencil point. The malison strings itsel

out into broken sentences of justification

mere ravings, as pointless as the curse

"Finders are keepers,—that's the law o

he strong. 'He that hath clean hands shal

be stronger and stronger.' I found it andgave it back, and he drowned it in

bottle.... Now it is mine; and to-morrow

'll be dead. But she'll know that I haven

—that I haven't—quite—forgotten."



To pain-blurred eyes the candle flame

has faded to a nebulous point in th

darkness, but still the light suffices. H

has neither envelope nor sealing-wax, buhe makes shift to seal the book with

wrapping of twine and a bit of pitc

scraped from the nearest strut in th

imbering. After which he seeks and findhe crevice in which Garvin kept hi

explosives; and when the note-book i

safely hidden, drops exhausted behind th

breastwork, with the rifle at his shoulder

beginning his vigil what time the firs

silvery flight of moon-arrows is pourin

upon cliff-face and cabin opposite.



CHAPTER XXI

It is a fact no less deprecable than tru

hat events in orderly sequence do no

always lend themselves to the purposes o

a chronicler who would be glad to pric

n his climaxes with a pen borrowed o

he dramatist. With some little labor, and

he help of not a few coincidences whicmay fairly be called fortuitous, the marc

of events in the life of Henry Jeffard ha

ed up to a point at which the fictiona

unities pause, confidently anticipative of climax which shall reëcho the heroi

struggle of the Spartan few a

Thermopylæ, or the daring-do of th

Pontine Horatius. But the facts ar



nexorable and altogether disappointing

With prologue and stage-setting for

Sophoclean tragedy, the piece halts; hang

n the wind at the critical conjuncture lika misstaying ship; becomes, in point o

fact, a mere modern comedy-drama with

ouch of travesty in it; and the unities

fictional and dramatic, shriek and expire.

This humiliating failure of the dramati

possibilities turns upon an inconsequen

pivot-pin in the human mechanismnamely, the lack of courage in the las

resort in men of low degree. To kidnap a

drunken man or to pistol an unarmed on

s one thing; to force a sky-pitcheGibraltar defended by a resolute fellow

being with a modern high-power repeatin

rifle and an itching trigger-finger is quit



another. This was the conservative poin

of view of the aliased ones; and after th

final futile attempt to gain the trail and th

cover of the timber, the twain held council of war, vilified their luck, and

sounded a retreat.

Thus it came about that Denby and himan, riding tantivy to the rescue, met th

raiders two miles down the trai

Aspenward; and having this eye-assuranc

hat the foray had failed, the promoter waminded to go back to town to awai

Jeffard's return. But, having the eye

assurance, he was not unwilling to ad

another. Bartrow's telegram had named thfigure of the assay; the incredible numbe

of dollars and cents to the ton to b

sweated out of the bonanza drift. Now



assays are assays, but investment is shy o

hem, demanding mill-runs, an

conservative estimates based on averages

and pondering these things the rescuereverted to his normal character o

capitalist in ordinary to moneyles

bonanzists, and determined to go on an

see for himself. Accordingly, Jeffard'unexpected reinforcements presse

forward while the enemy was in full tid

of retreat; and a short half-hour later th

squadron of retrieval came near to payin

he penalty of an unheralded approach

since it was upon the promoter and hi

henchman that Jeffard poured his finavolley.

So much for the tragi-comedy of th

sky-pitched Gibraltar, which made



ravesty of Jeffard's heart-breaking effort

o fortify himself in the old tunnel. And a

for the apparent determination to di

open-eyed and militant behind thbarricade, the unromantic truth again step

n to give the coup de grace to th

disappointed unities. There is a limit t

human endurance, and the hardiest soldiemay find it on a field as yet no more tha

half won. Fastings and fierce hurryings

wounds, physical and spiritual, an

ruthless determination may ride roughsho

over Nature's turnpike; but Nature wil

demand her toll. For this cause Jeffar

saw no more than the first flight of moonarrows glancing from the face of th

western cliff. Long before the Selenea

archers were fairly warmed to their wor

he had fallen asleep, with his cheek on th



carved grip of the borrowed rifle; a los

man to all intents and purposes, if th

fictional unities had not been put to fligh

by the commonplace fact.

Behold him, then, awakening what tim

he volleying sun has changed places wit

he moon-archers. The barricaded tunnehas a dim twilight of its own, but out an

abroad the day is come, and the keen air i

innient with the fine treble of th

mountain morning. The slanting sun-firspatters the gray cliff opposite, and

spiral of blue smoke is curling peacefull

above the chimney of the cabin. And in th

shallows of the stream a man, who ineither desperado black or red, is bathin

he legs of a horse. Under such condition

one may imagine a recreant sentry rubbin



his eyes to make sure, and presentl

climbing the barricade to slide down th

dump into parley range, question-charged

Denby unbent, smiling. "Didn't I sa

hat you were an inconsiderate madman

You had to sleep or die."

"But when did you get here?"

"About the time the proxies woul

have arrived, if you hadn't succeeded i

discouraging them. It was late; much late

han it would have been if you hadn't give

us such an emphatic stand-off at th

summit. Come across and have som

breakfast with us."

Jeffard found the foot-log and mad

shift to walk it.



"Did I fire at you? I thought it wa

another charge coming. They had bee

rying to rush me."

"So I inferred. We camped down out o

range and gave you plenty of time. You

may be no marksman, but"—He finishe

he sentence in dumb show by taking ofhis hat and pointing to a bullet score in th

crown of it. "A few inches lower and yo

would have spoiled your first chance o

capitalizing the Midas. How do you feehis morning?"

"A bit unresponsive, but better than

have a right to expect. What became of thwo raiders?"

"We met them riding a steeplechase

oward town. You discouraged them, as



said. From Donald's count of the bullet

splashes on that bald summit you mus

have gotten in your work pretty lively."

Jeffard lowered the hammer of the rifl

and emptied the magazine. "It's a goo

weapon," he said. "I believe I could lear

o shoot with it, after a while. Will yosell it?"

"Not to any one. But I'll make you

present of it. Let's go in and see whaDonald has found in his saddle-bags. It's

fine breakfast morning."

So they went into the cabin and sat a

meat on either side of a rough table o

Garvin's contriving, and were served by

solemn-faced Scot, whose skill as a cam

cook was commensurate with his ability t



hold his tongue. Notwithstanding th

presumable urgencies the breakfast tal

was not of business. Jeffard would hav

had it so, but Denby forbade.

"Not yet," he objected. "Not until yo

have caught up with yourself. Afte

breakfast Donald will sling you a blankehammock under the trees, and you shal

sleep the clock around. Then you'll fee

fit, and we can talk futures if you please."

If there were a prompting of suspicio

n the glance with which Jeffard met thi

proposal it remained in abeyance. Wit

every embrasure gunned and manned thfortress of this life must always b

pregnable on the human side; in the las

resort one must trust something to th

chance of loyalty in the garrison



Wherefore Jeffard accepted the promoter'

pipe and the blanket hammock, and fel

asleep while Donald was pulling dow

he barricade at the tunnel's moutpreparatory to liberating the neighin

horse stabled in the heading.

It was evening, just such another as thaone three months agone, in the heart o

which two men had sat at the cabin doo

ooking a little into each other's past

when Jeffard opened his eyes. The threhorses, saddled, but with loose cinches

were cropping the sun-cured grass on th

evel which served as a dooryard for th

cabin; and an appetizing smell of fryinbacon was abroad in the air. Jeffard sat up

yawning, and the promoter rose from th

doorstep and rapped the ashes from hi



pipe.

"Feel better?" he queried.

"I feel like a new man. I hadn't realizehat I was so nearly spent."

"That is why I prescribed the blanke

Another day would have finished you."

Jeffard slid out of the hammock an

went to plunge his face and hands in th

stream; after which they ate again as mewho postpone the lesser to the greater

with Donald the taciturn serving them, an

hunger waiving speech and ceremony.

It was yet no more than twilight whe

he meal was finished; and Denby found

candle and matches in the henchman'

saddlebags.



"If you are ready, we'll go up to th

unnel and have another look at the lea

before we go," he said. "I have bee

examining it to-day, and I'll make you proposition on the ground, if you like."

Jeffard pieced out the inference wit

he recollection of the saddled horses.

"Do we go back to-night?"

"Yes; if you are good for it. It has been

a pretty warm day for the season, and w

are like to have more of them. There is

good bit of snow on the trail, and if i

softens we shall be shut in. That's on

reason, and another is this: if we make

deal and mean to get any machinery i

here before snow flies and the range i

blocked, we've got to be about it."



Jeffard nodded acquiescence, and the

fared forth to cross the foot-log and toil up

he shelving slope of the gray dump. It wa

a stiff climb for a whole man, and at thsummit Jeffard sat down with his hands t

his head and his teeth agrind.

"By Jove! but that sets it in motioagain in good shape!" he groaned. "Si

down here and let's talk it out in the open

don't care to burrow."

Denby pocketed his candle, and the

sat together on the brink of the dump, wit

heir backs to the opening; and thus i

chanced that neither of them saw shadowy figure skulking among the fir

beside the tunnel's mouth. When the

began to talk the figure edged nearer

flitting ghostlike from tree to tree, an



finally crouching under the penthouse o

he tunnel timbering.

The crimson and mauve had faded ouof the western sky when the two at th

dump-head rose, and Jeffard said: "You

alternative is fair enough. It's accepted

without conditions other than this—thayou will advance me a few hundre

dollars for my own purposes some tim

within thirty days."

"You needn't make that a condition;

should be glad to tide you over in an

event. But I am sorry you won't let me bu

n. As I have said, there is enough here foboth of us."

The aftermath of the getting up was

sharp agony, and Jeffard had his hands to



his head again. When he answered it wa

o say:—

"I sha'n't sell. There are reasons, anyou may take this for the lack of a better

A while back, when a single meal in th

day was sometimes beyond me, I used t

say that if the tide should ever turn I'd lehe money go on piling up and up unti

here was no possibility of hunger in a

eternity of futures. You say the tide ha

urned."

"It has, for a fact; and I don't know tha

blame you. If it were mine I shoul

probably try to keep it whole."

Jeffard went on as one who follows ou

his own train of thought regardless o

answers relevant or impertinent. "I sai



hat, and I don't know that I have change

my mind. But before we strike hands o

he bargain it may be as well to go back t

he question which you were good enougo leave in abeyance yesterday."

"The question of ethics?"

"Yes."

"I am going to take something fo

granted, if you don't choose to be fran

with me."

"It will be safer to take nothing fo

granted."

"But the claim is yours?"

"Legally, yes; there will be no

itigation."



"But honestly, as man to man." Denby

put his hands on the wounded man'

shoulders, and turned him about so that th

fading light in the west fell upon his face"My dear fellow, I've known you but

day, but your face isn't the face of

scoundrel. I can't believe that the man wh

made the magnificent fight that you diwould make it to overreach his partner."

Jeffard turned aside, with a backwar

step that freed him from the friendlhands. Twice he tried to speak, and at the

hird attempt the words came but haltingly

"It will be better in the end—better foall concerned—if you—if you do believ

t. Believe it, and cause it to be believed

f you choose. I have counted the cost, an

am ready to take the consequences."



Denby thrust his hands into his pocket

and began to tramp, three paces and a turn

across and across the narrow

embankment. A little light was beginningo sift in between the man and his mystery

but it was not of the sun.

"Mr. Jeffard, I'd like to ask a questionYou needn't answer it if you don't want to

Do you know who drove this tunnel?"

"I do."

"Was it the man who raced you from

Leadville to Aspen, and who shot you

when you tried to bluff him by making hi

believe that you had already located th

claim in your own name?"

"It was."



"Then, to put it plainly, you are th

aggressor, after all. You have really

umped your partner's claim."

The promoter stopped and faced hi

man, and the skulker at the tunnel's mout

crept nearer, as a listener who may no

miss a word.

"That is what men will say, I suppose

and I shall not contradict them. He ha

forfeited his right." Jeffard said it witeyes downcast, but there was n

ncertitude in the words.

"Forfeited his right? How? By shootin

at you in a very natural fit of frenzie

rage? I can't believe that you realize th

enormity of this thing, Mr. Jeffard. You

are new to the West. It is true that the law



can't touch you, but public opinion, th

sentiment of a mining region, will bran

you as the basest of thieves."

"That is the public's privilege. I shal

not attempt to defend myself—to you, or t

any one. The consequences are mine t

suffer or to ignore."

"You can't ignore them. Your bes

friends will turn upon you, and mining

camp justice will not only acquit the mawho tried to kill you—it will fight for hi

and condemn you."



"But yesterday you said it would hav

given me the benefit of the doubt an

ynched him. I can fight my own battle."

"Yes, I did say so; and, lacking you

own evidence against yourself, it wil

condemn him yet. Had you thought o

hat?"

"Mr. Denby, I have answered you

questions because you had a right to as

hem. To the public I shall neither denynor affirm."

"Then you'll have the choice of posin

as a scoundrel on the one hand, or o

consenting to the death or imprisonment o

a measurably innocent man on the other.

don't envy you."



"It is my own affair, as you were good

enough to say yesterday. Do you wish to

withdraw your proposal?"

Denby took time to think about i

pacing out his decision what time th

moon was beginning to silver the wester

snow-caps.

"No; as I have made it and you hav

accepted it, the proposal is merely

matter of service to be rendered and paifor; I furnish the capital to work the min

for a year for a certain portion of th

output. But if you had taken me up on th

original proposition, I should beg to bexcused. Under the circumstances,

shouldn't care to be a joint owner wit

you."



"You couldn't be," said Jeffard briefly

"you, nor any one else."

"Well, we are agreed as to that. Shalwe go now? Donald is waiting, and th

moon will be up by the time we strike th

rail."

"One moment; I have left something i

he tunnel."

Jeffard turned back toward th

imbered archway, and the promoter wen

with him. In the act a shadowy figur

darted into the mouth of gloom and wa

seen by Denby.

"What was that?"

"I didn't see anything."



Denby stumbled over the remains o

he barricade. "That must have been what

saw," he said. "But at the moment I coul

have sworn it was a man dodging into thunnel."

A few feet from the entrance Jeffard

felt along the wall for the crevice, fount, and presently thrust the note-book int

Denby's hands.

"You may remember that I told you should leave my will here against

contingency which seemed altogethe

probable. In view of what has sinc

passed between us, I sha'n't hold you tyour promise to act as my executor; but i

anything happens to me I shall be glad i

you will send that book under seal to Dic

Bartrow. You will do that much for me



won't you?"

"Yes."

"That is all; now I am at your service."

A few minutes later the cabin and th

bit of dry sward in front of it wer

deserted, and the whispering firs haswallowed up the last faint echoes o

minishing hoof-beats. Not until the silenc

was unbroken did the shadowy figur

venture out of its hiding in the tunnel t

stumble blindly down the dump, across th

foot-log, and so to the cabin door. Here i

went down on hands and knees to quarte

he ground like a hungry animal in searc

of food. Unhappily, the simile is no

simile. It was James Garvin, who, for th

better part of two days, had not taste



food. And when finally the patient searc

was rewarded by the retrieval of a few

scraps of bacon and pan-bread, the broke

meats of Donald's supper-table, thstarving fugitive fell upon them with

beastlike growl of triumph. But in th

midst of the scanty feast he dropped th

bread and meat to cover his face with hihands, rocking back and forth in hi

misery and sobbing like a child.

"Oh, my Gawd!—ef I hadn't hearn iout'n his own mouth ... and me a-lovin

him thess like he'd been blood-kin to me

Oh, my Gawd!"



CHAPTER XXII

It was rather late in the autumn, too lat

o admit of a rush of prospectors to th

shut-in valley, when the fame of the new

gold-bearing district in the Elk Mountain

began to be noised about. As bonanz

fame is like to be, the earlier bruitings o

t were as nebulous as the later and mordetailed accounts were fabulous. Som

garbled story of the fight for possessio

found its way into the newspapers; an

since this had its starting-point in thresentment of the Aspen newsgathere

who had been so curtly sent to the right

about by Jeffard, it became the basis of a

accusation, which was scathing an



fearless, or covert and retractable, in jus

proportion to the obsequiousness of th

ournalistic accusers.

In its most favorable rendering thi

story was an ugly one; but here agai

chance, in the form of reportoria

naccuracy, was kind to Jeffard. From hiboyhood people had been stumbling ove

his name; and with ample facilities fo

verifying the spelling of it the reporter

began, continued, and ended by making i"Jeffers," "Jeffreys," and in one instanc

even "Jefferson." Hence, with Bartrow a

he single exception, no one who knew

Jeffard identified him with the man whhad figured as the putative villain-hero i

he fight for possession.

Bartrow read the account of the race



he shooting affray, and the subsequen

details of the capitalizing of the Midas

with Denby as its promoter and Jeffard a

sole owner, with judgment suspended. Iwas not in him to condemn any ma

unheard; and Jeffard had put himsel

safely out of reach of queryings, friendl

or otherwise, by burying himself for thwinter with the development force whic

he promoter had hurried across the rang

before the snows isolated the shut-i

valley. Later, when he had to pay the note

n the Leadville bank, Bartrow had

winge of dismay; but again invincibl

fairness came to the rescue, and he liftehe dishonored paper at a time when h

could ill afford to, promising himself tha

his, too, should be held in solution

should not even be precipitated i



confidence with any one.

This promise he kept until Constanc

Elliott plumbed the depths of him, as shwas prone to do when he gave evidence o

having anything to conceal. The occasio

was the midwinter ball of the Firs

Families of Colorado; and having morhan one score to settle with the youn

miner, who had lately been conspicuou

only by his absence, Connie ha

arbitrarily revised Bartrow's programme—which contemplated a monopoly of al

he dances Miss Van Vetter would give

him.

"Well, catalogue 'em—what have

done?" demanded the unabashed one

when she had marched him into tha

particular alcove of the great hotel dining



room which did temporary duty as

conservatory.

"Several things." Stephen Elliott'daughter was in the mood called pertnes

n disagreeable young women. "Have yo

quite forgotten that I stand in loc

arentis to the giddy and irresponsiblyoung person whose card you hav

covered with your scrawly autographs?"

The idea was immensely entertainino the young miner, who laughed so

heartily that a sentimental couple billin

and cooing behind the fan-palms too

wing immediately. "You? you chaperoningMyr—Miss Van Vetter? That's a good

one!"

"It's a bad one, where you ar



concerned. What do you mean by such a

nconsistent breach of the proprieties?"

"Inconsistent? I'm afraid I don't quitcatch on."

"Yes, inconsistent. You bury yourself

for months on end in that powder-smell

old tunnel of yours, and about the tim

we've comfortably forgotten you, yo

straggle in with a dress-coat on your ar

and proceed to monopolize one of usWhat do you take us for?"

It was on the tip of Bartrow's tongue t

retort that he would very much like to tak

Miss Van Vetter for better or worse, bu

he had not the courage of his convictions

So he kept well in the middle of the road

and made the smoke-blackened tunnel hi



excuse for the inconsistency.

"It isn't 'months,' Connie; or at least it'

only two of them. You know I'd be gladenough to chase myself into Denver ever

other day if I could. But it is coming dow

o brass tacks with us in the Little Myriad

and I've just got to keep my eye on thgun."

Whereupon pertness, or the Constanc

Elliott transmutation of it, vanished, anshe made him sit down.

"Tell me all about the Little Myriad

Dick. Is it going to keep its promise?"

The Little Myriad's owner sought an

found a handkerchief, using it mopwise

Curious questions touching the prospect



of his venture on Topeka Mountain were

beginning to have a perspiratory effec

upon him.

"I wish I could know for sure, Connie

Sometimes I think it will; and some othe

imes I should think it means to go back o

me,—if I dared to."

"Isn't the lead still well-defined?

Constance dropped into the minin

echnicalities with the easy familiarity oone born in the metalliferous West.

"It is now; but two months ago, o

hereabouts, it pinched out entirely. That i

why I hibernated."

"Was the last mill-run encouraging?"

"N-no, I can't say that it was. The or



—what little there is of it—seems t

grade rather lower as we go in. But it's

rue fissure, and it must begin to go th

other way when we get deep enough."

For a half-score of fan-sweeps Conni

was silent. Then: "Is the purse growin

ight, Dickie? Because if it is, poppa's istill comfortably fat."

Bartrow laughed in a way to indicat

hat the strain was lessened for thmoment. "I believe you and your fathe

would give away the last dollar you hav

n the world. But it hasn't come to a fres

oan with me yet."

"When it does, you know where t

float it."



"When it does, I sha'n't rob my bes

friends. If I have to borrow more mone

for development, I'm afraid the loan wil

be classed as 'extra hazardous.' But yosaid there were several things. What els

have I done?"

"The next is something you havendone. You haven't written a line to Mr

Lansdale in all these weeks,—not even t

hank him for taking your foolish telegra

about the Margaret Gannon crisiseriously. And he tells me he has written

you twice."

"I'm a miserable sinner, and lettewriting isn't in me. Is Lansdale here? I'l

go and square myself in the most abjec

formula you can suggest."



"He isn't here. He is out at Bennett on

ranch."

"On a ranch in midwinter? Who on topof earth told him to do that?"

"One of the doctors. I wanted t

dissuade him, but I hadn't the heart to try

He is so anxious to live."

"Naturally." Bartrow eyed hi

companion in a way which was meant t

be a measure of the things he knew an

would by no means tell, but Constanc

was opening and shutting her fan wit

nthought paramount, and saw it no

Whereat Bartrow was brutal enough t

say: "Is he going to make a go of it?"

"Oh, I hope so, Dick! It is such



pathetic struggle. And he is like all th

others who are best worth keeping alive

he won't let any one help him. Just fanc

him working for his board on a drearprairie ranch! The monotony of it i

enough to kill him."

"I should say so. Lamb ranch, suppose?"

"Yes."

"Then I can imagine the hilarity of it

Up at all sorts of hours and in all weather

feeding and watering. That isn't what h

needs. A wagon trip in summer, with good

company, lots of outdoors, and nothing to

do but eat and sleep, would be more lik

t. If he pulls through to spring, and th

Myriad will let up on me for a month o



wo, I don't know but I shall be tempted t

make him try it."

"Oh, Dick! would you?" There was quick upflash of wistful emotion in th

calm gray eyes. Bartrow set it down to

fresh growth in perspicacity on his ow

part that he was able to interpret it—ohought he was. But the little upflash wen

out like a taper in the dark with the adde

afterthought. "It's no use, Dick. Th

Myriad won't let you."

"Perhaps it will; though I'm bound t

admit that it doesn't look that way a

present. Now, if Jef—"

From what has gone before it will b

understood that any mention of Jeffard fo

good or ill was the one thing whic



Bartrow had promised himself to avoid a

all hazards; wherefore he broke the nam

n the midst, coughed, dragged out hi

watch,—in short, did what manlikuntactfulness may do to create a diversion

and at the end of it found the unafraid eye

fixed upon him with mandatory orders i

hem.

"Go on," she said calmly. "If Mr

Jeffard"—

"Really, Connie, I must break it of

short; my time's up. Don't you hear th

orchestra? Miss Van Vetter will"—

But Connie was not to be turned asid

by any consideration for Bartrow'

engagements or her own; nor yet by th

nflow into the alcove-conservatory o



sundry other fanning couples lately free

from the hop-and-slide of the two-step

or yet again by the appearance of youn

Mr. Theodore Calmaine, who came upbehind Bartrow and was straightwa

ransfixed and driven forth wit

pantomimic cut and thrust.

"Myra will have no difficulty in findin

a partner. Don't be foolish, Dick. I hav

known all along that you have learne

something about Mr. Jeffard which yowouldn't tell me. You may remember tha

you have persistently ignored m

questions in your answers to my letters,—

and I paid you back by telling you little onothing about Myra. Now what were yo

going to say?"

"I was going to say that if Jeffard wer



ike what he used to be, he would do fo

Lansdale what I shall probably not be abl

o do."

"What do you know about Mr

Jeffard?"

"What all the world knows—and

ittle more. Of course you have read wha

he newspapers had to say?"

"I have never seen a mention of hi

name."

"Why, you must have; they were full o

t a month or two ago, and will be again a

soon as the range opens and we find ouwhat the big bonanza has been doin

hrough the winter. You don't mean to say

hat you didn't read about the free-gol



strike in the Elk Mountains, and th

ocomotive race, and the shooting scrap

n the hotel at Aspen, and all that?"

The steady eyes were veiled an

Connie's breath came in nervous littl

gasps. Any man save downright Richard

Bartrow would have made a swifdiversion, were it only to an open window

or back to the ballroom. But he sa

stocklike and silent, letting her wi

hrough the speechlessness of it to thfaltered reply.

"I—I saw it; yes. But the name of tha

man was—was not Jeffard."

"No, it was Jeffers, or anything tha

came handy in the newspaper accounts

But that was a reporter's mistake."



"Dick,"—the steadfast eyes wer

ransfixing him again,—"are you quit

sure of that?"

"I ought to be. I was the man wh

helped him out at the pinch and got hi

started on the locomotive chase."

"You helped him?—then all those

hings they said about him were true?"

It was Bartrow's turn to hesitate. "I—

'm trying not to believe that, Connie."

"But you know the facts; or at least

more of them than the newspapers told

Did the claim really belong to him, or tJames Garvin?"

Bartrow crossed his legs, uncrosse

hem, and again had recourse to his watch



"I wish you'd leave the whole busines

up in the air, Connie, the way I'm trying to

t doesn't seem quite fair, somehow, to

condemn him behind his back."

"But the facts," she insisted. "You

know them, don't you?"

"Yes; and they're against him.

Bartrow confessed it in sheer desperation

"The claim was Garvin's; Jeffard not onl

admitted it, but he started out on the chaswith the declared determination o

standing between Garvin and those tw

blacklegs who were trying to plunder him

That's all; that's as far as my facts goBeyond that you—and the newspapers—

know as much as I do."

"Not quite all, Dick. You say you



helped him; that means that you lent hi

money, or borrowed it for him. Did h

ever pay it back?"

Bartrow got upon his feet at that an

glowered down upon her with mingle

chagrin and awe in gaze and answer.

"Say, Connie, you come precious nea

o being uncanny at times, don't you know

t? That was the one thing I didn't mean t

ell any one. Yes, I borrowed for him; andno, he didn't pay it back. That's all—all o

he all. If you put me in a stamp-mill yo

couldn't pound out anything else. Now, fo

pity's sake, let me get back to Miss VanVetter before I fall in with the notion tha

'm too transparent to be visible to th

naked eye."



She rose and took his arm.

"You're good, Dickie," she said softly

"much too good for this world. I'm sorrfor you, because it earns you so man

buffetings."

"And you think I'm in for another o

Jeffard's account."

"I am sure you are—now. The last tim

saw him he wore a mask; a horribl

mask of willful degradation and cynicis

and self-loathing; but I saw behind it."

They were making a slow circuit of th

ballroom in search of Connie's cousin, anhe throng and the music isolated them.

"What did you see?"



"I saw the making of a strong man

strong for good or for evil; a man wh

could compel the world-attitudes that mos

of us have to sue for, or who would bstrong enough on the evil side to flout an

gnore them. I thought then that he was a

he parting of the ways, but it seems I wa

mistaken,—that the real balancing momencame with what poppa calls the 'high

mountain bribe,'—Satan's offer of th

kingdoms of this world and the glory o

hem."

Now, a thronged ballroom is scarcel

a fit place for heart-to-heart outreachings

but there be loyal hearts who are noconstrained by their encompassments, an

Bartrow was of that brotherhood. The

had attained a corner where one migh



swing a short-sword without fear o

beheading the nearest of the dancers o

out-sitters, and he faced about and too

both of Connie's hands in his.

"Do you know, little sister, I'm awfully

glad you're able to talk that way abou

him. There was a time when I began to bafraid—for your sake first, and afterwar

for"—

It is conceivable that the frankest oyoung women may have some reserves o

ime and place, if not of subjects, an

before honest Dick could finish

Constance had freed herself and wareproaching young Calmaine for no

seeking her out for the dance in process,—

which was his.



Teddy's apology had in it the flavor o

ong acquaintance and the insolenc

hereof. "You're a cool one," he said

when they had left Bartrow behind. "As ididn't stand for five good minutes at th

door of that conservatory place, with yo

eye-pistoling and daggering me to mak

me go away!"

Thinking about it afterward, Bartrow

wondered a little that Connie seemed ben

on ignoring him through the remainder ohe functional hours, large and small, bu

so it was. And when finally he wa

constrained to put Miss Van Vetter in the

carriage, Connie's good-night and good-bwere of the briefest. Miss Van Vetter, too

was silent on the homeward drive, an

his Connie remarked, charging it openl



o Dick's account when they were befor

he fire in Myra's room contemplating th

necessity of going to bed.

"No, Mr. Bartrow was all that the mos

exacting person could demand,—an

more," said Miss Van Vetter, going to the

mirror to begin the relaxing process. "Iwas something he told me."

"About Mr. Jeffard?"

"Yes; how did you know?"

"I didn't know—I guessed."

"Isn't it dreadful!"

"No. Some of the other things he di

might have been that; but this i

unspeakable."



Myra turned her back upon the mirro

and came to stand behind Connie's chai

with her arms about her cousin's neck.

"Connie, dear, do you know that on

ime I was almost afraid that you,—bu

now I am glad,—glad that your point o

view is—is quite extrinsic, you know."

Connie's gaze was upon the fire in th

grate, fresh-stirred and glowing,

circumstance which may have accountefor the sudden trembling of the eyelids an

he upwelling of tears in the steadfas

eyes. And as for the nervous little quave

n her voice, there was fatigue to answefor that.

"I—I'm so glad you all take that fo

granted," she said. "I don't know what



should do if you didn't."

And a little later Myra went to bed an

o sleep, wondering if, after all, therwere not secret places in the heart of he

ransparent kinswoman which evaded th

search-warrant of cousinly disinterest.



CHAPTER XXIII

The obsequious waiter had cleared th

able and brought in the dessert, and wa

hovering in the middle distance with tw

cigars in a whiskey glass. The persiflan

young people at the other end of the tabl

rose and went away, leaving a gratefu

silence behind them; and the clericagentleman at Lansdale's right folded hi

napkin in absent-minded deference t

home habit, and slipped sidewise out o

his chair as if reluctant to mar the newborn hush.

Bartrow was down from the mine o

he ostensible business of restocking th



commissariat department of the Littl

Myriad,—a business which, prior to Mis

Van Vetter's Denver year, had transacted

tself indifferently well by letter,—andLansdale was dining with him at the hote

by hospitable appointment. There wer

months between this and their las

meeting, an entire winter, in point of factbut it is one of the compensations of man

o-man friendships that they ignor

absences and bridge intervals smoothly

uncoupling and upcoupling again wit

small jar of accountings for the incident

of the lacuna.

Because of the persiflant young peoplehe fire of query and rejoinder had bee

he merest shelling of the woods on eithe

side; but with the advent of quiet Bartrow



said: "Your winter on the lamb-ranch

didn't do you much good, did it?"

"Think not?" Lansdale looked uquickly, with a pathetic plea fo

heartening in the deep-set eyes of him. "

was hoping you'd say it had. I fee

stronger—at times."

Bartrow saw the plea and the pathos o

t, and added one more to the innumerabl

contemnings of his own maladroitness. Hwas quite sure of his postulate, however

—as sure as he was of the unnecessar

cruelty of setting it in words. Lansdal

was visibly failing. The clean-shaven facwas thin to gauntness, and the dark eye

were unnaturally bright and wistfu

Bartrow bribed the ubiquitous waiter t

remove himself, making the incident a



excuse for changing the subject.

"Never saw or heard anything more o

Jeffard, did you?" he said, pitching thconversational quoit toward a known pe

of common interest, and taking it fo

granted that Lansdale, like Connie, had no

read the proletary's name into thnewspaper misspellings.

"Not a thing. And I have ofte

wondered what happened."

"Then Connie hasn't told you?"

"Miss Elliott? No; I didn't know sh

knew him."

"She met him a time or two; which i

another way of saying that she knows hi

better than we do. She's a whole assa



outfit when it comes to sizing people up."

"What was her opinion of Jeffard?

Lansdale was curious to know if iconfirmed his own.

"Oh, she thinks he is a grand rascal, o

course,—as everybody does."

"Naturally," said Lansdale, having i

mind the proletary's later reincarnations a

vagrant and starveling. "You didn't see

much of him after he got fairly into th

oboggan and on the steeper grades, di

you?"

"Here in Denver?—no. But what I disee was enough to show that he was prett

badly tiger-bitten. You told me afterward

hat he took the post-graduate course in hi



particular specialty."

"He did; sunk his shaft, as you minin

folk would say, straight on down to thchaotic substrata; pawned himsel

piecemeal to feed the animals, and wen

hungry between times by way of contrast.

"Poor devil!" said Bartrow, speakin

n the past tense.

"Yes, in all conscience; but not so

much for what he suffered as for what h

was."

The distinction was a little abstruse fo

a man whose nayword was obviousnessbut for the better part of a year Bartrow

had been borrowing of Miss Van Vetter

among other things some transplantings o



subtlety.

"That's where we come apart," h

objected, with amiable obstinacy. "Youhink the root of the thing is in the man,—

has been in him all along, and onl

waiting for a chance to sprout. Now

don't. I think it's in the atmosphere; in th—the"—

"Environment?" suggested Lansdale.

"Yes, I guess that's the word

something outside of the man; somethin

hat he didn't make, and isn't altogether t

blame for, and can't always control."

The man with a moiety of the seer's gif

suffered his eyebrows to arch query-wise

"Doesn't that ask for a remodeling of th



accepted theory of good and evil?"

"No, you don't!" laughed Bartrow

"You are not going to pull me in over myhead, if I know it. But I'll wrestle with yo

from now till midnight on my own ground

You take the best fellow in the world

brought up on good wholesome bread anmeat and the like, and stop his rations fo

awhile. Then, when he is hungry enough

you give him a rag to chew, and he'l

proceed to chew it,—not necessarilbecause he likes the taste of the rag, o

because he was born with the rag-chewin

appetite, but simply for the reason that yo

have put it in his mouth, and, being hungryhe's got to chew something. Jeffard is

case in point."

"Let us leave Jeffard and the persona



point of view out of the question and stan

t upon its own feet," rejoined Lansdale

warming to the fray. "Doubtless Jeffard'

problem is divisible by the commohuman factor, whatever that may be, bu

your theory makes it too easy for the evil

doer. Consequently I can't admit it,—no

even in Jeffard's case."

"I could make you admit it," retorte

Bartrow, with generous warmth, forgettin

he dishonored note in the Leadville bankand remembering only the year agon

partnership in brother-keeping. "You can

size people up ten times to my once,—yo

ought to; it's right in your line,—but know Jeffard worlds better than you do

and I could tell you things about him tha

would make you weep. Since he did thos



hings I've had a rattling good chance t

change my mind about him, but I'm no

going to do it till I have to. I'm going t

keep on believing that away down deepunder this devil's-drift of—what was i

you called it?—environment, there's

streak of good clean ore. It may take th

stamp-mill or the smelter to get it out, but's there all the same. He may fall dow

on you and me and all of his friends at an

one of a dozen pinches,—he has falle

down on me, and pretty middling hard

oo,—but there will come a pinc

sometime that will pull him up short, an

hen you'll see what is in the lower levelof him,—what was there all the time

waiting for somebody to sink a shaft dee

enough to tap it."



Lansdale took the cigar Bartrow wa

proffering and clipped the end of i

reflectively deliberate. He was silent s

ong that Bartrow said: "Well? you donbelieve it, eh?"

"I wouldn't say that," Lansdale rejoine

abstractedly; "anyway, not of JeffardPerhaps you are right. He has given me th

same impression at times, but he wa

always saying or doing somethin

mmediately afterward to obliterate it. Buwas wondering why you prophesy s

confidently about a man who, for aught w

know, took himself out of the world th

better part of a year ago."

"Suicided?—not much! He's alive al

right; very much alive and very much o

op, as far as money is concerned. You



don't read the papers, I take it?"

Lansdale's smile was of weariness

"Being at present a reporter on one ohem I read them as little as may be. Wha

should I have read that I didn't?"

"To begin back a piece, you should

have read last fall about the big free-gol

strike in the Elk Mountains, and a

exciting little scrap between two men t

get the first location on it."

"I remember that."

"Well, one of the men—the successfu

one—was Jeffard; our Jeffard. Younewspaper accomplices didn't spell hi

name right,—won't spell it right yet,—bu

t's Henry Jeffard, and yesterday'



Coloradoan' says he's on his way t

Denver to play leading man in the bonanz

show."

Lansdale went silent what time it too

o splice out the past with the present

After which he said: "I understand now

why Miss Elliott condemns him, but noquite clearly why you defend him. As

remember it, the man who got possessio

of the Midas posed as a highwayman o

he sort that the law can't punish. What hahe to say for himself?"

Bartrow shook his head. "I don't know

haven't seen him since one day last falhe day of the locomotive chase."

"Did you know then that he was goin

o steal his partner's mine?"



"No. I thought then that he was going t

do the other thing. And I'll not believe ye

hat he hasn't done the other thing. It's th

finish I'm betting on. He may have flowhe track at all the turns,—at this last tur

as well as the others,—but when it come

o the home stretch, you watch him put hi

shoulder into the collar and remembewhat I said. I hope we'll both be there t

see."

"So be it," Lansdale acquiesced. "Isn't in me to smash any man's ideal. And

f anything could make me have faith in m

kind, I think your belief in the inheren

virtue of the race would work thmiracle."

Bartrow laughed again, and pushe

back his chair.



"It does you a whole lot of good t

play at being a cold-blooded man-hater

doesn't it? But it's no go. Your practice

doesn't gee with your preaching. Let's gout on the porch and smoke, if it won't b

oo cool for you."

They left the dining-room together anstrolled out through the crowded lobby

ighting their cigars at the news-stand i

passing. There was a convention of som

sort in progress, and a sprinkling of thdelegates, with red silk badges displayed

was scattered among the chairs on th

veranda. Bartrow found two chairs a littl

apart from the decorated ones, faced themand tilted his own against the railing

When his cigar was well alight h

bethought him of a neglected duty.



"By the way, old man, I've never had

he grace to say 'much obliged' for you

neatness and dispatch in carrying out m

wire order. I suppose you've forgotten imonths ago, but I haven't. It was good o

you. Connie wrote me about it at the time

and she said a whole lot of pretty thing

about the way you climbed into thbreach."

"Did she?" Lansdale's habitual reserv

fell away from him like a cast garmentand if Bartrow had been less oblivious t

face readings he might have seen tha

which would have made his heart ache

But he saw nothing and went on, followinhis own lead.

"Yes; she said you took hold like a

good fellow, and hung on like a dog to



root,—that is, she didn't say that, o

course, but that was the sense of it. I'

obliged, a whole lot."

"You needn't be. The obligation is on

my side. It was a pleasure to try to hel

Miss Elliott, even if I wasn't able t

accomplish anything worth mentioning."

"Yes. She's good people; there's no

discount on that. But say, you didn't siz

up Pete Grim any better than you had to. Agood stiff bluff is about the only thing h

can appreciate."

"If you had heard me talk to him yo

would have admitted that I was trying t

bluff him the best I knew how," said

Lansdale.



Bartrow laughed unfeelingly. "Tried to

scare him with a lawsuit, didn't you? Wha

do you suppose a man like Grim cares fo

he law? Why, bless your innocent soul, hcan buy all the law he needs six days i

he week and get it gratis on the seventh

But you might have fetched him down wit

a gun."

Lansdale tried to imagine himsel

attempting such a thing and failed. "I'

afraid I couldn't have done that—successfully. It asks for a little practice

doesn't it? and from what I have learned o

Mr. Peter Grim in my small dealings with

him, I fancy he wouldn't make a verractable lay-figure for a beginner t

experiment on. But we worried the thin

hrough after a fashion, and recovered th



young woman's sewing-machine finally."

"Bought Grim off, didn't you?"

"That was what it amounted to. MisElliott's father came to the rescue."

"There's a man for you!" declare

Bartrow. "Built from the ground up, andwhite all the way through. And Connie'

ust like him. She's first cousin to th

angels when she isn't making game of you

But I suppose you don't need to hav

anybody sing her praises to you at this lat

day."

"No; that is why I say the obligation ion my side. I am indebted to your 'wir

order' for more things than I could wel

catalogue."



Bartrow rocked gently on the hinde

egs of his chair, assuring himself that on

of the things needed not to be listed. Afte

which he became diplomatically abstruson his own account. Two of the decorate

ones came by, promenading arm in arm

and he waited until they were out o

hearing.

"Found them good people to know

didn't you? Bueno! You used to hibernate

a heap too much." Then, with laborendifference: "What do you think of Mis

Van Vetter?"

Lansdale laughed.

"Whatever you would like to have m

hink, my dear boy. Shall I say that she i

he quintessence of all the virtuous grace



and the graceful virtues?—a paragon o

para—"

"Oh, come off!" growled the abstrusone. "You've been taking lessons o

Connie. You know what I mean. Do I—

hat is—er—do you think I stand a ghos

of a show there? Honest, now."

"My dear Richard, if I could look int

he heart of a young woman and read wha

s therein written, I could pass poverty ihe street with a nod contemptuous. I'd b

a made man."

"Oh, you be hanged, will you? You're a

wild ass of the lamb-ranches, and wisdo

has shook you," Bartrow rejoined

relapsing into vituperation. "Why can't yo

quit braying for a minute or so and b



serious? It's a serious world, for th

bigger part."

"Do you find it so? with a Miss VanVetter for an eye-piece to your telescope?

am astonished."

Bartrow pulled his hat over his eye

and enveloped himself in a cloud o

smoke. "When you're ready to fold up you

ears and be human people again, just le

me know, will you?" This from the midsof the smoke-cloud.

"Don't sulk, my Achilles; you shal

have your Briseis,—if you can get her,

aughed Lansdale. "Miss Van Vetter hasn'

made a confidant of me, but I'll tell you

ot of encouraging little fibs, if that wil

help you."



Bartrow fanned an opening in th

obacco-nimbus. "What do you think abou

t?"

"I think I should find out for myself, if

were you," said Lansdale, with becomin

gravity.

"I don't believe you would."

"Why?"

"Miss Van Vetter is rich."

"And Mr. Richard Bartrow is onl

potentially so. That is a most excellen

reason, but I shouldn't let it overweigcommon sense. From what Miss Ellio

has said I infer that her cousin's fortune i

not large enough to overawe the owner o

a promising mine."



Bartrow's chair righted itself with

crash.

"That's the devil of it, Lansdale; that'ust what scares me out. I've been peckin

away in the Myriad for a year and a hal

now, and we're in something over fou

hundred feet—in rock, not ore. If we donstrike pay in the immediate hence I'm

ruined community. I've borrowed right an

eft, and piled up debt enough to keep m

n a cold sweat for the next ten yearsThat's the chilly fact, and I leave it to yo

f I hadn't better take the night train an

skip out for Topeka Mountain withou

going near Steve Elliott's."

The red-badges were passing again

and Lansdale took time to consider it. Th

appeal threw a new side-light on th



character of the young miner, and

Lansdale made mental apologies fo

having misjudged him. When he replied i

was out of the heart of sincerity.

"It's a hard thing to say, but if you hav

stated the case impartially, I don't know

but you would better do just that, DickFrom what I have seen of Miss Van

Vetter, I should hazard a guess that the

success or failure of the Little Myria

wouldn't move her a hair's-breadth, buhat isn't what you have to consider."

"No." Bartrow said it from the teet

outward, looking at his watch. "It's toughbut I guess you're right. I can just abou

make it if I get a quick move. Will you go

down to the train with me?"



Lansdale assented, and they walked th

few squares to the Union Depot in silence

The narrow-gauge train was coupled an

ready to leave, and Bartrow tossed hihandbag to the porter of the sleeping-car.

"You're a cold-blooded beggar, do you

know it?" he said, turning upon Lansdalwith as near an approach to petulance a

his invincible good-nature woul

sanction. "Here I've lost a whole day an

ridden a hundred and fifty miles just to gea sight of her, and now you won't let m

have it."

Lansdale laughed and promptly evadehe responsibility. "Don't lay it on m

shoulders; I have sins enough of my ow

o answer for. It's a little hard, as you say

but it is your own suggestion."



"Is it? I don't know about that. It ha

been with me for a good while, but i

never knocked me quite out until I bega

o wonder what you'd do in my place. Thasettled it. And you're not out of it by

arge majority. What are you going to tel

hem up at Elliott's?—about me, I mean."

"Why should I tell them anything?"

"Because you can't help yourself

Elliott knows I'm in town,—knows wwere going to eat together. I met him on

he way up to dinner."

"Oh, I'll tell them anything you say."

"Thanks. Fix it up to suit yourself,—

wired to come back on first train, o

something of that sort. Anything'll do



anything but the truth."

Lansdale's smile was inscrutable. H

was thinking how impossible it would bfor the most accomplished dissembler t

ell aught but the truth with Constanc

Elliott's calm gray eyes upon him.

"I am afraid I shall make a mess of it."

"If you do, I'll come back and murde

you. It's bad enough as it is. I've got a few

days to go on, and I don't want them t

know that the jig is definitely up until i

can't be helped."

"Then you'd better write a note and dyour own lying," said Lansdale. "I ca

spin fetching little fictions on paper an

sign my name to them, but I'm no good a



he other kind."

The engine-bell clanged, putting th

alternative out of the question."That lets me out," Bartrow said. "You

go up there and square it right for me

savez? And say, Lansdale, old man; don

work yourself too hard. In spite of th

amb-ranch, you look thinner than usua

and that's needless. Good-by."

Bartrow wrung his friend's hand fro

he steps of the Pullman, and Lansdal

aughed quite cheerfully.

"Don't you waste any sympathy on me,he said. "I'm going to disappoint you al

and get well. Good-night; and success t

he Little Myriad."



CHAPTER XXIV

Lansdale stood watching the two re

eyes on the rear platform of the sleeping

car until the curve on the farther side o

he viaduct blotted them out; after whic

he fell in with the tide of humanity ebbin

cityward through the great arch of th

station, and set out to do Bartrow's erranat the house in Colfax Avenue.

On the way he found time to admir

Bartrow's manliness. The little deed o

self-effacement promised a much keene

sense of the eternal fitness of things tha

he had expected to come upon, in th

young miner, or in any son of th



untempered wilderness. Not that th

wilderness was more mercenary than th

ess strenuous world of an olde

civilization—rather the contrary; but if igave generously it was also prone to tak

freely. Lansdale wrought out the antithesi

as a small concession to his own point o

view, and was glad to set Bartrow's selfabnegation over against it. Assuredly h

would do what a friendly man migh

oward making good the excuses of th

magnanimous one.

It was Miss Van Vetter who met him a

he door, and he thought he surprised

shadow of disappointment in her eyewhen she welcomed him. But it wa

Constance who said, "Come in, Mr

Lansdale. Where is Dick?"



She was holding the portière aside fo

him, and he made sure of his ingres

before replying. Being of two mind

whether to deny all previous knowledgof such a person as Richard Bartrow, or t

commit himself recklessly to the hazard

of equivocal explanations, he steered

middle course.

"Am I my brother's keeper?" h

demanded, dropping into the easy-chai

which had come to be called his by righof frequent occupancy.

"Oh, I hope you haven't murdered him!

said Connie, with a show of trepidation"That's a terribly suggestive quotation."

"So it is. But are not my hands clean?

He held them up for inspection. "How ar



you both this evening?"

Connie's eyes danced. "Mr. Lansdale

do you happen to know anything about thhabits of the ostrich?"

Lansdale acknowledged defea

extending his hands in mock desperation

"Put the thumbikins on if you must," h

said, "but don't screw them down to

hard. I couldn't tell anything but the truth i

should try."

"What have you done with Dick?"

"I have murdered him, as yo

suggested, and put his remains in a trunand shipped them East."

Miss Van Vetter looked horrified, bu

whether at his flippancy or at the hideou



possibility, Lansdale could not determine

"But, really," Connie persisted, with

ook in her eyes which would havexorcised any demon of brazenness; "yo

dined with him, you know."

"So I did; but he had to go back to hi

mine on the night train. I saw him off, an

he made me promise to come here and—

and"—

"Square it?" Connie suggested.

"That is precisely the word,—hi

word. And you will both bear me witnes

hat I have done it, won't you?"

Miss Van Vetter was cutting the leaves

of a magazine, and she looked up to say

"That is one of the explanations whic



doesn't explain, isn't it?"

Lansdale collapsed in the depths of th

chair. "'I'm a poor unfort'net as don't knownothink,'" he quoted. "Tell me what you'd

ike to have me say and I'll say it."

"Why did Mr. Bartrow have to go back

so unexpectedly?" asked Myra. "He tol

Uncle Stephen he would be in Denver tw

or three days."

Lansdale was not under bonds to kee

he truthful peace at the behest of any eye

save those of Constance Elliott; wherefor

he drew upon his imagination promptly

and, as it chanced, rather unfortunately.

"He had a telegram from his forema

about a—a strike, I think he called it."



"A strike in the Little Myriad!" Thi

from both of the young women in chorus

Then Connie thankfully: "Oh, I'm so glad!

and Myra vindictively: "I hope he'll nevegive in to them!"

Lansdale collapsed again. "What hav

done!" he exclaimed.

Constance set her cousin right, or trie

o.

"It isn't a strike of the men; it's pay-or

—isn't it, Mr. Lansdale?"

"Now how should I know?" proteste

he amateur apologist. "A strike is a strikesn't it? But I don't believe it was the goo

kind. He wasn't at all enthusiastic abou

t."



"That will do," said Connie. "Poo

Dick!" And Miss Van Vetter, who was not

of the stony-hearted, rose and went to th

piano that she might not advertise heemotion.

Lansdale picked himself up out of th

ruins of his attempt to do Bartrow a goourn, and hoped the worst was over. It wa

for the time; but later in the evening, whe

Myra had gone to the library for a boo

hey had been talking about, Connireturned to the unfinished inquisition.

"You know more than you have told u

about Dick's trouble," she said gravely"Is it very serious?"

"Yes, rather." Lansdale made a sudden

resolve to cleave to the facts in the case



elling as few of them as he might.

"It wasn't a strike at all, was it?"

"No; that was a little figure of speecht is rather the lack of a strike—of the kin

you meant."

"Poor boy! I don't wonder that it madhim want to run away. He has worked so

hard and so long, and his faith in the Littl

Myriad has been unbounded. What will h

do?"

"I don't know that. In fact, I think he i

not quite at the brink of things yet. But h

s afraid it is coming to that."

"How did he talk? Is he very muc

discouraged? But of course he isn't

nothing discourages him."



Lansdale was looking into th

compelling eyes and he forgot his rôle,—

forgot that he had been giving Constanc

o understand that the prospective failurof the mine was the only cloud i

Bartrow's sky.

"I'm sorry I can't confirm that." Hspoke hurriedly, hearing the rustle of Mis

Van Vetter's skirts in the hall. "He decide

rather suddenly,—to go back, you know

He intended coming here with me thievening. I don't think he had eve

considered all the possibilities an

consequences; and we were talking i

over. Then he decided not to come. He ihe soul of honor."

Constance nodded intelligence, an

made the proper diversion when he



cousin came in with the book. But Mis

Van Vetter had overheard the fina

sentence, and she put it away for futur

reference.

Lansdale said good-night a little later

and they both went to the door with him

When he was gone Myra drew Connie inthe library and made her sit down wher

he light from the shaded chandelier fel

full upon her.

"Connie, dear," she began, fixing he

cousin with an inquisitorial eye, "who i

the soul of honor'?"

"It isn't nice to overhear things," sai

Connie pertly.

"I might retort that it isn't nice to hav



confidences with a gentleman the momen

your cousin's back is turned, but I sha'n't

Will you tell me what I want to know?"

"We were talking about Dick."

Myra's hands were clasped over he

knee, and one daintily shod foot wa

apping a tattoo on the rug. "Was i

anything that I ought not to know?"

Connie's pertness vanished, and th

steadfast gray eyes brightened with quic

upwellings of sympathy. "No, dear; it wil

doubtless be in everybody's mouth befor

many days. You remember what I told you

once about Dick's prospects?—that da

we were on top of El Reposo?"

"Yes."



"Well, I think the Little Myriad isn

going to keep its promise; Dick thinks so.

Myra sat quietly under it for a littlwhile, and then got up to go to th

window. When she spoke she did not tur

her head.

"He will be ruined, you said. Wha

will you do, Connie?"

"I? What can I do? Poppa would len

him more money, but he wouldn't take it

—not from us."

Silence while the bronze-figured cloc

on the mantel measured a full minuteThen:—

"There is one way you can make hi

ake it."



"How?"

Myra gave a quick glance over he

shoulder, as if to make sure that her cousiwas still sitting under the chandelier.

"He believes—and so does your fathe

—that it is only a question of time an

more money. He couldn't refuse to take hi

wife's money."

Miss Van Vetter heard a little gasp

which, to her strained sense, seemed to b

more than half a sob, and the arc-ligh

swinging from its wire across the avenu

was blurred for her. Then Connie's voice

soft and low-pitched in the silence of th

book-lined room, came to her as from

great distance.



"You are quite mistaken, Myra, dear

mistaken and—and very blind. Dick is m

good brother,—the only one I ever had

not my father's son, but yet my brotherThere has been no thought of anything els

between us. Besides"—

Myra heard light footfalls and thrustle of drapery, and stole another quic

glance over her shoulder. The big pivot

chair under the chandelier was empty. Th

door into the hall was ajar, and Connie'face, piquant with suppressed rapture

was framed in the aperture.

"Besides, you good, densempracticable cuzzy, dear,—are you

istening?—Dick is head over ears in lov

with—you."



The door slammed softly on the fina

word, and there was a quick patter o

flying feet on the stairs. Myra kept he

place at the window; but when the arcight had parted with its blurring aureol

she drew the big pivot-chair to the des

and sat down to write.

What she had in mind seemed not t

say itself readily, and there was quite

pyramid of waste paper in the baske

before she had finished her two lettersShe left them on the hall table when sh

went up to her room, and Connie foun

hem in the morning on her way to th

breakfast-room to pour her father's coffee

"I wish I might read them," she said

with the mischievous light dancing in he

eyes. "It's deliciously suspicious; a lette



o Dick, and one to her man of business

all in a breath, and right on the heels of m

ittle bomb-shell. If she ever tries t

discipline me again,—well, she'd bettenot, that's all."



CHAPTER XXV

Two days after his return to the mine o

Topeka Mountain, Bartrow received a

etter. It came up from Alta Vista by the

hands of one of the workmen who ha

been down to the camp blacksmith sho

with the day's gathering of dulled tools

and was considerably the worse fohandling when it reached its destination

Connie's monogram was on the flap of th

envelope, but the address was not i

Connie's handwriting. So much Bartrowremarked while he was questioning th

ool-carrier.

"Took you a good while, didn't it? Was



Pat sober to-day?"

"Naw; swimmin' full, same as usual."

"Spoil anything?"

"Burnt up a drill 'r two, spite of all

could do. Laid off to lick me when he go

hrough, but I lit out 'fore he got round tt."

"Did, eh? It's a pity; he's a goo

blacksmith if he'd only let whiskey aloneTry him in the morning next time, and

maybe you'll catch him sober."

"Don't make any dif'rence 'bout thime o' day with him. He's full all the time

he is."

Bartrow's curiosity was beginning t



bestir itself, but he put it under foot till h

had climbed to the three-roomed cabin o

he bench above the tunnel-opening. Wu

Ling was laying the table for supper, andhe master of the mine sat down on th

porch to read his letter. It was from Mis

Van Vetter; and the glow on Bartrow's

sunburned face as he read it was noaltogether the ruddy reflection from th

piled-up masses of sunset crimson in th

western sky.

"Dear Mr. Bartrow," she wrote: "Mr

Lansdale has just been here, and we mad

him tell us about your trouble, though h

ried very hard not to. From which wnfer that you didn't want us to know,—

and that was wrong. If one cannot go t

one's friends at such times, it is surely



very thankless world.

"Constance told me some time ago tha

you might not be able to go on with thLittle Myriad without the investment o

more capital, and I have written about it t

a friend of mine in the East who ha

money to invest. You may call it a mosunwarrantable impertinence if you please

but I'm not going to apologize for it,—no

here. If you would really like to humbl

me, I'll give you plenary indulgence wheyou come to see us.

"I inclose my friend's Philadelphi

address, and I may say with confidenchat I am quite sure he will help you if yo

will write him.

"We have abundant faith in you and in



he Little Myriad. Don't think of giving up

and please don't evade us when you ar

next in Denver."

Bartrow absorbed it by littles, and sa

fingering the slip of paper with th

Philadelphia address on it, quite unheedfu

of Wun Ling's thrice-repeatedannouncement that supper was ready. I

was his first letter from her, and the fac

was easily subversive of presence o

mind. Not until the lilt of it had a littloutworn itself could he bring himsel

down to any fair-minded consideration o

he offer of help. But when it finally cam

o that, he put the letter in his pocket anwent in to supper, smiling ineffably and

shaking his head as one who has set hi

face flintwise against temptation.



An hour later, however, when he wa

smoking his pipe on the porch step, th

emptation beset him afresh. His faith i

he ultimate success of the mine had nevewavered. It was unshaken even now, whe

he was at the end of his resources, and

hing had happened which threatened t

demand a costly change in the method oexploiting the lode. But to be confident fo

himself and for those who, knowing th

hazard, had helped him hitherto, was on

hing; and to take a stranger's money wa

quite another. And when the strange

chanced to be the friend of the woman h

oved, a person who would invest in thLittle Myriad solely on the ground of Mis

Van Vetter's recommendation, the

difference magnified itself until it took th

shape of a prohibition.



The light had faded out of the wester

sky, and the peaks of the main range stood

out in shadowy relief against the star

dusted background. The homely noises iWun Ling's sanctum had ceased, an

silence begirt the great mountain. Bartrow

ossed the extinct pipe through an ope

window, and began to pace the length ohe slab-floored porch. It was not in hi

o give up without another struggle; a fina

struggle, he called it, though none knew

better that there is no final struggle for

strong man save that which crown

perseverance with the chaplet of fruition

The temptation to grasp the hand held ouo him was very subtle. If Miss Van Vetter

could have been eliminated—if only th

proposal had come direct from th

Philadelphia capitalist, instead of throug



her.

The sound of footsteps on the gravel a

he tunnel's mouth broke into his reverieand the figure of a man loomed dimly i

he darkness at the foot of the path leadin

up to the cabin. It was McMurtrie, th

mining engineer in charge of the BiBonanza at Alta Vista. Bartrow called

down to him.

"Is that you, Mac? Don't come up; I'lbe with you in a second."

The engineer sat down on a tool-bo

and waited.

"I'm a little late," he said, whe

Bartrow came down the path. "It's pay-da

at the Bonanza. Get a lamp and let's go i



and have a look at your new grief."

"You didn't need to tramp up here in

he dark," Bartrow rejoined, feeling in niche in the timbering for a miner's lamp

"I'd given you up for to-night."

"Oh, I said I'd come, and I'm here.

know how it feels to be on the ragge

edge,—been there myself. Is that the bes

amp you could find? It isn't much bette

han a white bean. Pick it up a little higheso I can see the wet spots. It's too chilly t

go in swimming to-night."

They were picking their way throug

he damp tunnel, Bartrow ahead with th

amp held high. The "new grief" was a

apparent change in the direction of th

ore-bearing crevice from its sligh



nclination upward to a sharp pitc

downward; and Bartrow had aske

McMurtrie to come up and look at it.

In the heading the engineer took th

amp and made a careful examination o

he rock face of the cutting, tracing th

outline of the vein with the flame of thamp, and picking off bits of the shattere

rock to determine the lines of cleavage

Bartrow stood aside and waited for th

verdict; waited with a tense thrill onervousness which was quite new to him

and the monotonous drip-drip of the wate

percolating through the tunnel roo

magnified itself into a din like the ringinof hammers upon an anvil.

"Well, what do you say?" he queried

when the engineer made an end and bega



o fill his pipe.

"You're in for it, Dick,—here, hold thi

amp a minute, will you? It's a pretty welldefined dip in the formation, and I'

afraid it has come to stay. That means a

ncline."

The echo took up Bartrow's ironica

augh and gave it back in mockin

reiteration.

"Yes; an incline at the end of a four

hundred-and-forty-foot tunnel, and a stea

hoist, and a pumping outfit, and a few

other little knickknacks. Say a couple o

housand dollars or so before I can turn

wheel."

McMurtrie bent to light his pipe at th



flame of the lamp. "That's about the size o

t. Hold that lamp still, can't you?"

"Hold it yourself," retorted Bartrowand he took a turn in the darkness to stead

his nerves. When he stumbled back int

he dim nimbus of lamplight he had fough

and won his small battle.

"Don't lay it up against me, Mac," h

said, in blunt contrition. "It knocked m

out for a minute. You know I've beenbacking my luck here for all I'm worth."

"Yes, I know that. What will you do

now?"

"Quit; come off the perch; shut up sho

and pull down the blinds. It's all there i

o do."



"And give it up?"

"And give it up. Bank's broke; or a

east it will be when I've paid the meanother time or two."

McMurtrie had Scotch blood in hi

veins, and was cannily chary of offerin

unasked advice. None the less, he did it.

"I'd borrow a little more nerve and g

on, if it were mine."

"So would I if I could."

"Can't you?"

Bartrow said "no," changed it to "yes,

and then qualified the assent until it, too

became a negation.



"It's a pity," was the engineer'

comment. "I believe another hundred fee

would let you in for a decently goo

hing."

"So do I. But it might as well be

housand. I know when I'm downed."

McMurtrie scoffed openly at that

aking his pipe from his mouth to say

"That's the one thing you don't know

You'll chew on it a while and go toDenver; and in a day or so your men wil

get orders to go on. I've seen you downe

before. Why don't you go back East an

marry a rich girl? That's the way tdevelop a mine."

It was a random shot, but it went s

near the mark that Bartrow winced, an



was thankful that the flaring miner's lam

was not an arc-light. And his rejoinde

gnored the matrimonial suggestion.

"You're off wrong this time, Mac.

wish you didn't have to be. But it's no use

'm in debt till I can't see out over the top

of it, and I couldn't raise another thousanon the Myriad if I should try,—that is, no

n Colorado. If I go to Denver it'll be t

urn over my collateral and let everybod

down as easy as I can."

"Then don't go yet a while."

Bartrow took the lamp and led the wa

out of the tunnel.

"I did mean to stand it off to the las

minute," he said, when they were onc



more under the stars, "but I don't know a

t's worth while now. Will you come up t

he shack and smoke a few lines? No

Then wait till I get my coat and I'll waldown to camp with you. I want to do

ittle wiring before I turn in."

They parted at the railway statioabove the camp at the foot of Bonanz

Mountain, and Bartrow went in to send hi

message. In the hour of defeat he yearned

manlike, for sympathy; and it was tConnie that his cry went out

otwithstanding the earnestness of it, th

appeal was consistently characteristic i

ts wording.

"I'm hunting sympathy. Can you giv

me a lonesome hour or two if I com

down? Answer while I wait."



He asked the night operator to rush it

and sat down with his feet on the window

sill to smoke out the interval. A half-hou

ater, when the operator was jogginDenver for a reply to his "rush," the din o

an affray floated up to the open window

from the camp in the gulch. The operato

came to the window and looked dowupon the twinkling lights of the town.

"That's the blacksmith again," he said

"He's been on a steady bat for two weeksand the camp isn't big enough to hol

him."

"He'll kill himself, if he don't mind,Bartrow prophesied. "He's raw yet, an

hasn't found out that a man can't stand th

drink up here that he could in the valley."



"No. Doc said he had a touch of th

immies last night. He yelled for hi

daughter till they heard him up at the shaft

house of the Bonanza. McMurtrie said"—But what the engineer's commentary ha

been was lost to Bartrow, since th

clicking sounder was snipping out th

reply to the "rush" message.

The operator wrote it out and handed i

o Bartrow. The answer was a

characteristic as the appeal.

"Two of the three of us go to

Boulder to-morrow to return by the

late train. The other one is mostsympathetic. Come.

"Connie."



CHAPTER XXVI

On the long day-ride from Alta Vista to

Denver, Bartrow dwelt upon Myra's lette

until the hopefulness of it took possessio

of him, urging him to reconsider hi

determination to give up the fight on th

Little Myriad. That which seems to hav

fortified itself beyond peradventure odoubt in the night season is prone to ope

he door to dubiety in the morning; and th

hope which McMurtrie's verdict ha

quenched came to life again, setting thmill of retrieval agrind, though, apart fro

he suggestion in Myra's letter, there wa

ittle enough for grist.



From admitting the hope to considerin

ways and means was but a step in th

march of returning confidence; and, settin

aside Myra's proposal as an alternativwhich would bring victory at the expens

of the cause in which the battle wa

fought, he was moved to break hi

promise to himself and to ask help oStephen Elliott. This decision was no

reached without a day-long struggle, i

which pride and generosity fough

shoulder to shoulder against the apparen

necessity. The pioneer had more than onc

offered to back the promise of the Littl

Myriad; but Bartrow, knowing Elliott'weakness in the matter of money keeping

had steadily refused to open another doo

of risk to the old man who had fathere

him from boyhood, and whose majo



nfirmity was an open-handed willingnes

o lend to any borrower.

But the necessity was most urgentBartrow rehearsed the condoning fact

and set them over against his promise t

himself. If he should give up the fight th

Little Myriad would be lost, he would beft hopelessly in debt, and the beatifi

vision, with Miss Van Vetter for its

central figure, vanished at once into th

imbo of things unrealizable. Moreoverhe investment would be less hazardou

for the pioneer than at any previous tim

n the history of the mine. Notwithstandin

he discouragements, it was a hearteninfact that the ore-bearing vein was steadil

widening; and the last mill-run assay

made a week before, had shown



cheering increase in value.

Bartrow weighed the pros and cons fo

he twentieth time while the train waspeeding over the ultimate mile of the lon

run, and finally yielded to the importunat

urgings of the necessity. The first step wa

o take Connie into his confidence; anwhen the train reached Denver he hurrie

o the hotel, full of the new hope and eage

o begin the campaign of retrieval. Whil

he was inscribing his name in the registehe clerk asked a question.

"Just come down from the range, Mr

Bartrow?"

"Yes. Can you give me my old room?"

"Certainly." The clerk wrote th



number opposite the name. "What do the

say up in the carbonate camp about th

Lodestar business?"

"The Lodestar? I don't know. I haven

been in Leadville. I came down from th

Bonanza district on the other line

Anything broke loose?"

"Haven't you heard? The big produce

s played out."

"What!"

"Fact; struck a 'lime horse' two week

ago, and they've been keeping it dark an

unloading the stock right and left. You arenot in it, I hope?"

Bartrow was not, but he knew tha

Elliott was; knew, too, that in an



unloading sauve qui peut the old pionee

would most likely be one of those foun

dead in the deserted trenches. Wherefor

he slurred his supper and hastened out the house in Colfax Avenue, not to ask

help, as he had prefigured, but to ascertai

f there were not some way in which

broken man might tender it.

There was a light in the library an

none in the parlor; and Bartrow, bein

rather more a brevet member of StepheElliott's family than a visitor, nodded to

he servant who admitted him, hung up hi

coat and hat, and walked unannounced int

he lighted room. When he discovered thahe library held but one occupant, that th

shapely head bending over a book in th

cone of light beneath the reading-lamp



was not Connie's, he realized th

magnitude of Connie's duplicity, and

equanimity forsook him.

Miss Van Vetter shut her finger in her

book and smiled as if his sudde

appearance were quite a matter of course

"I hoped you would come," she said

"Have you been to dinner?"

The prosaic question might hav

enabled a less ingenuous man to cover hi

discomposure with some poor verba

mantle of commonplace or what not; bu

Bartrow could only murmur "Good Lord!

sinking therewith into the hollow of th

nearest chair because his emotion was to

great to be borne standing.



Since she was not a party to Connie'

small plot, Myra was left to infer that he

visitor was ill, and she rose i

sympathetic concern.

"Why, Mr. Bartrow! is anything the

matter? Shall I get you something? a glas

of wine, or"—

Bartrow shook his head and besough

her with both hands to sit down again

"No, nothing, thank you; it's miles past thasort of mending. Do you—do you happe

o know where your cousin is?"

"Why, yes; she has gone to Boulde

with Uncle Stephen."

"I—I thought you were going," Bartrow

stammered.



It did not occur to Miss Van Vetter to

wonder why he should have though

anything about it.

"I thought so myself, up to the las

moment," she rejoined.

Bartrow leaned forward with his hand

on his knees.

"Miss Myra, would you—do you min

elling me why you didn't go?" He said i

with reproachful gravity.

Miss Van Vetter's poise was an

nheritance which had lost nothing i

ransmission, but the unconscioureproach in his appeal overset it. Unde

ess trying conditions her laugh woul

have emancipated him; but being still i



he bonds of unreadiness, he could onl

glower at her in a way which lacke

nothing of hostility save intention, and say

"I should think you might tell me whayou're laughing at!"

"Oh, nothing—nothing at all. Only on

would think you were sorry I didn't goAre you?"

"You know well enough I'm not." Thi

ime the reproach was not unconscious"But you haven't answered my question.

have a horrible suspicion, and I want t

know."

"It was Connie's mistake. I was to mee

hem at the station at half past four—I a

sure she said half past four—and when

went down I found the train had been gon



an hour. Did you ever hear of such

hing?"

Miss Van Vetter did not know that thesmall arch-plotter had exhausted he

ngenuity trying to devise some les

primitive means of accomplishing he

purpose; but Bartrow gave Connie fulcredit for act and intention.

"She'd do worse things than that; sh

wouldn't stick at anything to carry hepoint," he said unguardedly.

Myra laughed again. "I hope you don

ask me to believe that she did i

purposely," she said.

"Oh, no; of course not. I don't ask yo

o believe anything—except that I'



foolishly glad you missed the train,

rejoined the downright one, beginning t

find himself.

"Are you, really? I was almost ready t

doubt it."

Bartrow was not yet fit to measur

swords of repartee with any one, least o

all with Miss Van Vetter, and the

quicksand of speechlessness engulfed him

His helplessness was so palpable that ipresently became infectious, and Myr

was dismayed to find herself growin

sympathetically self-conscious. Her lette

ay between their last meeting and thisand she began to wonder if that were th

barrier. When the silence becam

portentous, Bartrow gathered himself fo

another dash toward enlargement. It wa



hat or asphyxia. The very air of the roo

was heavy with the narcosis o

embarrassment.

"Your letter came yesterday," he began

abruptly.

"Did it? And you have come to tell m

o—to tell me to mind my own business

as I said you might?"

"No, indeed, I haven't. But I can't do i

all the same—drag your friend in on th

Myriad."

"Was Mr. Lansdale mistaken? Don'

you need more capital to go on with?"

"Need it?—well, yes; rather. But

can't take your Mr. Grimsby's money."



"Why not?"

"Because"—the low-pitched hollow o

he big lounging-chair seemed to put hiat a disadvantage, and he struggled up ou

of it to tramp back and forth before he

—"well, in the first place, because he i

your friend; and if he wasn't, I have nsecurity to offer him—collateral,

suppose he'd call it."

"He is not exactly my friend, withiyour meaning of the word; and he will no

ask you to secure him."

He stopped and looked down upon her

She was shading her eyes from the shee

of the reading-lamp and turning the leave

of the book.



"What does he know about the Littl

Myriad? anything more than you have tol

him?"

"No."

"And yet you say he is willing to put up

money on it?"

"He is ready to help you—yes."

Bartrow's brows went together in

frown of perplexity. "As long as I'm nogoing to let him, I suppose I haven't an

right to ask questions, but"—

She put the book on the table anooked up at him with something o

Connie's steadfastness in her eyes.

"Perhaps I was foolish to try to mak



even such a small mystery of it; but

hought—I was so anxious to—to put it i

such a way as to"—

The words would not discove

hemselves; and Bartrow, to whom th

mystery was now no mystery, helped he

over the obstruction.

"As to make it easy for me. I think

catch on, after so long a time. Mr

Grimsby is your business manager, isnhe?"

"My solicitor; yes."

"That's what I meant. And it was goino be your own money?"

"Yes."



He met her gaze with a smile o

mingled triumph and admiration.

"It was a close call, and you'll neveknow how near I came to falling down,

he said. "It was a fearful temptation."

The pencilled brows went up with

ittle arch of interrogation between them.

"A temptation? Why do you call i

hat?"

Bartrow was slowly coming to his ow

n the matter of unconstraint. "If you ha

ever dabbled in mineral, you'd know

When a fellow gets in about so deep, he'foreclose the mortgage on hi

grandfather's farm to get money to go o

with. I didn't read between the lines i



your letter. I thought the Philadelphia ma

was some friend of yours who wa

nterested in a general way, and th

emptation to fall on his neck and weewas almost too much for me."

"You still call it a temptation."

"It was just that, and nothing less. I ha

he toughest kind of a fight with mysel

before I could say no, and mean it."

"But why should you say no? You

believe in the Little Myriad, don't you?"

"Sure. But that's for myself—and for

few people who knew the size of the riswhen they staked me. So far as I've gon

with it, it's only a big game of chance; an

wouldn't let you put your money into i



unless I knew it was the surest kind of

sure thing."

"Not if I believe in it, too? Not if I awilling to take the chances that you and th

others have taken?" Myra conceived tha

her mistake lay in putting it upon th

ground of a purely business transactionand changed front with truly feminin

adroitness. "Won't you let me have just a

iny share of it? Enough so that when I g

back to Philadelphia I can say that I anterested in a mine? I should think yo

might. I'll promise to be the most tractabl

and obedient stockholder you have."

She made the plea like a spoiled chil

begging for a toy, but there was no

mistaking the earnestness of it. Bartrow

felt his fine determination oozing, and wa



moved to tramp again, making a circuit o

he entire room this time, and saying t

himself with many emphatic repetition

hat it could not be possible,—that hemotive was only charitable,—that he wa

nothing more to her than Connie's friend

When he spoke again his circlings ha

brought him to the back of her chair.

"You're making it fearfully hard for me

and the worst of it is that you don't seem t

know it. You think I am a mining crankike all the rest of them, and so I am; bu

here was method in my madness. I neve

cared overmuch for money until I came t

know what it is to love a woman who haoo much of it."

There was manifestly no reply to b

made to such a pointless speech as this



and when he resumed hi

circumambulatory march she began to tur

he leaves of the book again. When i

became evident that he was not going telucidate, she said, "Meaning Connie?"

"No, not meaning Connie." He ha

drifted around to the back of her chaiagain. "I wish you'd put that book awa

for a few minutes. It owls me."

"I will, if you will stop circling abouand talking down on me from the ceiling

t's dreadfully distressing."

He laughed and drew up a chair facin

her; drew it up until the arm of it touche

hers.

"It's a stand-off," he said, with cheerfu



effrontery; "only I didn't mean my part o

t. Let's see, where were we? You said

Meaning Connie,' and I said, 'No, no

meaning Connie.' I meant some one elseUntil I met her, the Little Myriad wa

merely a hole in the ground, not so ver

different from other holes in the groun

except that it was mine—and it wasn't thLittle Myriad then, either. After that, it go

ts name changed, and its mission, too

From that day its business was to make i

possible for me to go to her and say, '

ove you; you, yourself, and not you

money. I've money enough of my own.'"

She heard him through with the face oa graven image. "And now?"

"And now I can't do it; I can never d

t, I'm afraid. The Little Myriad has gon



back on me, and I'm nearer flat broke to

day than I've ever been."

"But this unfortunate young person whhas too much money—she is young, isn

she?—has she nothing to say about it?"

Bartrow answered his own though

rather than her question. "She couldn't b

happy with everybody saying she'd stake

her husband."

"Has she told you that?"

"No; but it's so,—you know it's so."

Bartrow was no juggler in figures ospeech, and his fictitious third perso

hreatened to become unmanageable.

Her smile was good to look upon. "



don't know anything of the kind. I think sh

would be very foolish to let such a

absurd thing make her unhappy—

supposing any one should be unkinenough to say it."

"They would say it, and I'd hear of i

and then there'd be trouble."

"But you say you love her; isn't you

ove strong enough to rise above suc

hings? You think the sacrifice would behers, but it wouldn't; it would be yours."

"I don't see how you make that out."

Myra's heart sank within her. It hurt hemmeasurably to be driven to plead he

own cause, but the money-fact wa

nexorable; and the look in Bartrow's eye



was her warrant when she dared to rea

t.

"Oh, can't you see?" The wordwrought themselves into a plea, though sh

strove to say them dispassionately. "If i

ouch your self-respect ever so little, th

sacrifice is all yours."

That point of view was quite new t

Bartrow. He took time to think it out, bu

when the truth clinched itself he wenstraight to the mark.

"I never saw that side of it before—

don't quite see it now. But if you do, that'

different. It's you, little woman; and I d

ove you—you, yourself, and not you

money. I wish I could go on and say th

rest of it, but I can't. Will you take me fo



better or for worse—with an even chanc

hat it's going to be all worse and n

better?"

Her eyes filled with quick tears, an

her voice was tremulous. "It would serv

you right if I should say no; you've fairl

made me beg you to ask me!"

Her hand was on the arm of the chair

and he possessed himself of it and raise

t to his lips with gentle reverence.

"You'll have to begin making

allowances for me right at the start," h

said humbly. "When I make any bad

breaks you must remember it's because

don't know any better, and that away dow

deep under it all I love you well enough t

—to go to jail for you. Will you wait fo



me while I skirmish around and try to ge

on my feet again?"

"No"—with sweet petulance."There it is, you see; another bad brea

right on top of the first. Suppose you talk

while and let me listen. I'm good a

istening."

"I'll wait, if you want me to,—and i

you will let me help you to go on with th

Little Myriad."

Bartrow's laugh had a ring of boyis

oy in it.

"Back to the old cross-roads, aren

we? I'll let you in on it now; but if yo

ake the mine you'll have to take the ma

along with the other incumbrances,—



simultaneously, so to speak."

"I thought you were anxious to wait."

"If you were as poor as I am, I'd asyou to make it high noon to-morrow."

"Oh! the money again. Can't we put i

aside, once for all? There isn't so much ot as you may imagine."

Bartrow overleaped the barrier at

bound.

"Then let's make it noon to-morrow. I

we are going to push the Myriad I ought t

go back to-morrow night."

She tried to scoff at him, but there wa

ove in her eyes.



"Connie said once that you wer

Young-man-afraid-of-his-horses, but she

doesn't know you. I believe you more tha

half mean it."

"I do mean it. If I sit here and look a

you much longer I shall be begging you t

make it nine o'clock instead of twelveDon't ask me to wait very long. It'll b

hard enough to go off and leave yo

afterward. It's a good bit more than

hundred miles in a straight line froDenver to Topeka Mountain."

"I'm going with you," she said calmly.

"You?—to live in a wicky-up on the

side of a bald mountain? But you know

what it is; you've been there. You'd die o

he blues in a week."



"Would I?" She rose and stood beside

his chair. "You don't know much abou

me, yet, do you? If the 'wicky-up' is goo

enough for you, it is good enough for me. am going with you, and I'm going to mak

hat dear little log cabin a place that yo

will always be glad to remember,—if

can."

He drew her down on the arm of th

chair.

"Don't talk to me that way, Myra,—yo

mustn't, you know. I'm not used to it, and i

breaks me all up. If you say another wor

shall want to make it seven o'clock in thmorning instead of nine."

"Can you wait a month?"



"No."

"Three weeks?"

"No."

She gave up in despair. "You are

dreadfully unreasonable."

"I know it; I was born that way and

can't help it. I sha'n't insist on to-morrow

because I'm not sure that Wun Ling ha

anything for us to eat; but one week froo-morrow, when I've had time to stock up

and straighten up a bit, is going to be th

imit. Can you make it?"

"What if I say no?"

"I shall come anyway."



She bent over until her lips touched hi

forehead.

"That is your answer, only you dondeserve it. And now will you answer my

question? I asked you when you came in i

you had been to dinner, and you said

Good Lord!'"

"Did I? I think I must have been a bi

rattled. You see, I'd just heard some bad

news, and I was expecting to find Connieand wasn't expecting to find you."

"Did Connie write you she would mee

you?"

He had one hand free to fish out th

day-old telegram and give it to her. Sh

read it with a swift blush crimsonin



cheek and neck.

"The unscrupulous little tyke!" sh

said; and then, with self-defensive tact"But you said you had bad news."

"Yes. A mine that our good old Uncle

Steve is pretty deeply into has gone dry."

"Failed, you mean?"

"Yes, that's it. I wish you'd teach me

how to talk English,—good clean Englishike yours. Connie has tried it, but pshaw

she's worse than I am. But about th

Lodestar: I don't know how deep the ol

man is in; he's such an innocent old infanabout putting up money that I'm awfull

afraid they have salted him. You mus

pump Connie and find out. I'll be i



Leadville to-morrow night, and if there i

anything to be done on the ground I'll do it

The old man has been a second father t

me."

Myra promised, and went back onc

more to the unanswered dinner query.

"Now you remind me of it, I believe

haven't been to dinner," he admitted. "Bu

hat's nothing; a meal or two more or les

sn't to be mentioned at such a time ahis."

"I am going to get you something."

"No, don't; I'm too happy to eat."

But she insisted, and when she cam

back with a dainty luncheon on a tea-tra

he did ample justice to it, if for no bette



reason than that she sat on the other side o

he small reading-table and made tea fo

him.

Afterward, when the time drew nea

for the Elliotts' return, he took his leave

hough it was yet early.

"They are the best friends I have o

earth," he said, when Myra went to th

door with him, "but somehow, I feel as if

didn't want to meet anybody I know,—noo-night. I want to have it all to myself fo

a few hours."

She laughed at that; a laugh with a

upbubbling of content and pure happines

n it; and sent him off with his heart afire

When he was halfway down the walk sh

recalled him. He came back obediently.



"It will cost you something every tim

you do that," he protested, exacting th

penalty. "Was that what you wanted?"

"Of course not! I merely wanted to as

you what it is to 'owl' a person. You said

owled' you."

"Did I? Well, you don't; you never can

That is the best definition I can think of

something you can never do to me. May

say good-night again? the way I did minute ago?"

The glare of the arc-light swingin

between its poles across the avenue wa

quite ruthless, and there were passers-b

n straggling procession on the sidewalk

But at the critical instant the kindl

ncandescence burned blue, clicked



fizzed, and died down to a red spot in th

darkness. For which cause Bartrow

presently went his way, with the heart-fir

upblazing afresh; and when Myra woback to the library and the cosy depths o

he great chair, the color scheme of fai

neck and cheek and brow was no

altogether the reflection from the crimsoshade of the reading-lamp.



CHAPTER XXVII

CONSTANCE TO MYRA

My dear Lady Bountiful: Your letter—

he ridiculous one—came yesterday. Thdea of your proposing in the very mornin

of your honey-month to take the Colfa

Avenue house and turn it into a home fo

ndigent relatives! As Tommie would pu

t, "Wot are you givin' us!"

But seriously, cuzzy dear, it's quite ou

of the question. Papa wouldn't hear to itand besides, we are getting along ver

cosily now, re-learning a good man

essons that prosperity makes one forge



One of them is that gratitude isn't quit

ike the dodo,—gone into fossilisti

extinction, you know.

Margaret Gannon is one of th

nstances. She has taken a room in ou

block, and there is no limit to her grea

rish tender-heartedness. If I'd let her, shwould make me sit down and hold m

hands while she does the housework o

our three rooms. In spite of all I can say o

do, she does do a great deal of it; and can hear her sewing-machine buzzing dee

nto the night to pay for it.

Tommie is another. The day we moveddown here from the old home in Colfa

Avenue that "irreclaimable little savage,

as you once called him, brought me hi

surplus of a dollar and something an



asked me to "blow it in" for him. Think o

t and weep, you luxury-spoiled darling!

could have hugged him, dirt and all. And

since that day he has been my Ariel, imore ways than you would think possible

He is so sharp and keen-witted; and hi

philanthropy has developed into

passion.

Mr. Lansdale has been most kind. Tha

s the proper phrase, I believe, but now

hat I have written it down it seems tritand meaningless. If I say that he has fairl

earned the right to sign himself "Rober

Lansdale, Gentleman," you wil

understand. The change in oucircumstances has been a test that he alon

of all our friends has been able to endur

unmoved. I don't say that others are no



kind and sympathetic, but they are—wel

hey are different. Now that I can say i

without hurting you, I'll admit that I'v

always had a good bit of contempt foculture of the imported variety (I think

have been spelling it "culchah"), but Mr

Lansdale has converted me. It is wort

something to be able to rise superior tcircumstances,—the circumstances o

others, I mean,—and, between us two, it'

a virtue to which we new people haven

quite attained.

I presume you read the Denver papers

and if you do you know all I could tell yo

about the person whom you once said wabetter worth saving than other people. Mr

Lansdale, who was one of the origina

rio, you remember, talks very sparingly o



Mr. Jeffard; from which I infer that ther

sn't much to be said,—in mixed company

The newly arrived one lives in a

apartment building, and papa says they arbeginning to call him a miser on the stree

They'd say that of any capitalist wh

wouldn't invest in at least one "ground

floor" a day; but I think you will agrewith me that they can't say anything wors

han the truth about him. I haven't had th

ll-chance to meet him yet (I hope I'll b

spared that), but I am afraid Tommie ha

been spying upon him,—for reasons of hi

own which he won't explain. I happene

o overhear the final volley of a smalbattle royal between my Ariel and

Margaret the other day, which had in it

hint of an unnamable thing,—a thing whic

nvolves Margaret and the unworthy one



You may remember that he once posed a

her deus ex machina. And she has grow

dangerously beautiful in her year o

uprightness.

When you write, tell me all about you

plans for the summer; and believe m

always

Your cousin-content,

Connie.

MYRA TO CONSTANCE

Dear Connie: Really, the S. P. C. C

ought to take you in hand! To think of the

cold-blooded way in which yo

hoodwinked us up to the very last moment

making us believe that the Lodesta

nvolvement was next to nothing, an



keeping the home intact solely for th

purpose of providing a proper stage

setting for the final act of our littl

comedy-drama! It's fairly heart-breakinghe more since you won't let us share wit

you, as we'd be glad to. Before you saw

fit to confide in us, Dick had used ever

argument short of a pick-handle tconvince me that I should presently g

back to Denver and creature comforts

eaving him here to go on delving in th

Myriad. I only laughed at him, but I'l

recant if you will listen to reason, and le

me make a home for you and Uncl

Stephen. But as between living a threequarter widow in Denver on mere visitin

erms with you and your father, and

hibernating here with Dick, you may b

sure I shall choose the latter.



We are both as enthusiastic as can be

over the prospects of the mine. The new

machinery is on the way, and we are dow

wenty feet on the incline. Another montwill surely carry it into pay-rock. (You

see I am learning to talk "mineral-English

with the best of them.) Under th

circumstances, I don't blame Dick fowanting to stay right here every day; and i

won't be so lonesome for me as you ma

magine. You see I have Dick, and he can

be a whole cityful upon occasion.

You wouldn't know "The Eyrie" (Dick

says the altitude is so great that we had t

have a high-sounding name) since we havbegun to remodel it. We are to have

another room, a larger kitchen for Wu

Ling (oh, he is a celestial treasure!—quit



he archangel of the culinary host), a hug

chimney, with immense fireplaces, agains

a possible winter here, and a wider porch

—board-floored, if you please. Andnside I have rugged and portièred, an

pictured and bric-a-bracked, until th

pristine barkiness of the place is all bu

effaced.

So far, with the exception of a

occasional call from Mr. McMurtrie, w

have been "each other's own bescompany;" but if I stay up all summer i

will be conditional upon your and Uncl

Stephen's spending at least a month wit

us when the hot weather makes your blocuncomfortable. Don't say no beforehand

unless you want to make me quit

disgusted.



Mr. Lansdale is a lineal descendant i

he direct line of the Chevalier,—the san

eur et sans reproche one; you know I'v

always said that of him. It chokes mwhen I think of what is lying in wait fo

him. Isn't there the least little glimmer o

hope? He looked so bright and eager o

our wedding day that I could almost makmyself believe he was going to get wel

You must be very, very careful, Connie

dear; not to encourage him too much,

mean; not unless you—but I sha'n't say i

without your warrant.

What you say about Margaret Gannon'

rish true-heartedness reminds me of ouown wild Irishman. He is the min

blacksmith, a perfect Sheridan for wit an

repartee when he is sober, and a mania



of maniacs when he is drunk,—whic

happens whenever Dick relaxes hi

vigilance for a single hour.

The other day Pat (if he has any othe

name I've never heard it) did a thin

heroic. They are using dynamite in th

unnel, and after the noon blasts one of thminers went in before the deadly gas ha

been properly "ventilated" out. One of th

others saw him stumble and go headlon

down the incline, and the cry went back the entrance. Pat heard it (he was sobe

hat day), flung his tools to the four winds

dashed into the pit of death, and came ou

black in the face, but with the man on hishoulder, just as Dick got down to th

entrance. Wasn't that fine?

As you surmise, we have read all tha



he newspapers are saying about Mr

Jeffard. Isn't it queer that he shoul

develop into a millionaire miser! Dick ha

old me a great deal about him,—at leasabout the Mr. Jeffard he used to know,—

and whatever sins he may have had t

answer for in those days, avarice was no

one of them. I suppose it is another case omoney-spoiling, but I can't help wanting t

doubt your latest suspicion of him. I rea

your letter to Dick, and he shook his hea

when I came to that part; said he couldn

believe it, even on your testimony,—tha

he man might be capable of all sorts o

villainy, but not that. So I am going over tDick's point of view far enough to ask yo

not to be too hard upon the "unworthy one

ust because he is no longer one of you

poverty-stricken sinners,—he was tha



once, wasn't he? The rich sinners nee

charity quite as really as the poor; of

different kind, to be sure, and not alway

as easy to exercise as the other, but nonhe less necessary.

This is all you are going to get to-night

Dick has just come up from the mine, anhe says I sha'n't write any more whatever.

Your loving cousin,

Myra.

LANSDALE TO BARTROW

My Dear Richard:—What with a min

for a taskmaster and a wife for you

eisure I can fancy you tossing this lette

aside unopened. But the promise whic

you exacted is herein kept, and it mus



plead my excuse for breaking into you

honeymoon with a few pages of barre

gossip.

First, as to Miss Elliott and her goo

father. Your foreboding went nearer the

mark than the ostensible fact. They wer

merely postponing the evil day until afteyour wedding, and when the crash came i

urned out to be no less than a catastrophe

Stephen Elliott met it like a man, giving u

everything to his creditors, and comindown to a life of the barest necessitie

with the serenity of a philosopher, happy

apparently, that the well of assets wa

deep enough to brim the tank of liabilityhough at the expense of the final drop.

I am told that he was left quite withou

resources other than a small sum of mone



which one of the creditors absolutel

refused to accept; and he assures me tha

he will once more shoulder pick an

shovel and go afield again as soon as thseason is a little farther advanced.

confess frankly that the heroism of i

bedazes me. If there be any finer exampl

of dauntlessness in the heart of man, thnovellers have not yet portrayed it for us

He was sixty-three last January, and h

promises to begin the search for anothe

competence with all the enthusiasm an

ardor of youth!

Constance you know, and I need no

assure you that the sudden down-droppinouches her not at all; or if at all, only o

he side of her beneficences to others. S

far as one may perceive, the change fo



her is only of encompassments. She is a

much above it as she was superior to th

cheapening effect of an elastic ban

account. To me she seems the sweeter fohe chastening, though really, I presume

she is neither better nor worse for it,—no

any different. You may be sure that my

first call upon them after the submergencwas made with a heartful of sympathy,—

which I took away with me, and with it

esson in sincerity and simple-heartednes

rare enough in my experience. There i

gentle blood and enviable in these two

My pen is too clumsy to ink in the detail

of this picture for you.As to Jeffard: When he made hi

appearance I struck hands with your poin

of view sufficiently to meet him as i



nothing save good fortune had overtake

him,—an attitude which it is sometimes a

difficult for me to maintain as it appear

altogether impossible for some others whused to know him. By which you wil

understand that he is ostracized in a way

or would be in any casting of the potsher

votes by the unthinking majority.

I am bound to say, however, that the

whiplash of public opinion does not see

o be quite long enough to reach him. Afortnight ago, for reasons charitable o

experimental, as you please, I got him

bidding to one of Mrs. Calmaine'

"ridottos." You know Mrs. Calmaine andher tolerance, and you will appreciate th

situation when I tell you that I had t

manœuvre a bit for the formal invitation



hough Jeffard used to be in her goo

book. Jeffard accepted, and I went wit

him to see what would befall. There wer

a good many there who had known thprehistoric Jeffard, and while they did no

pointedly ignore him, they seemed to b

divided between a desire to cold-shoulde

he man and to conciliate the prospectivmillionaire;—wherefore the

compromised by giving him what yo

would call "the high hand-shake."

Whatever may have been my motive i

dragging him into it, Jeffard's own reason

for going were confessedly experimenta

So much he confided to me on our earlretreat from the house of mirth. "I wante

o find out where I stand," he said, "an

hese good people have been quit



explicit. Don't get me any mor

nvitations." And after a time he added, "

can buy them when I want them." Fro

which you will infer that he wilhenceforth sit in the seat of the scornfu

and this, I fear, is the lamentable fact.

Touching his present mode of life, iborders on the puzzling. With a ban

deposit which is currently reported t

reach seven figures, and which i

doubtless well up in the sixes, he lives iwo rooms in a block, and takes his meal

at the club. A very rich spendthrift migh

do this, you will say, saving at the spigo

and wasting at the bung; but so far as mobservation goes, Jeffard seems not t

know that his barrel has a bung. And if an

of the staves have started on the side o



dissipation, the leak is not yet apparent t

me. The other evening, when I let drive

ittle arrow pointed with a gibe at hi

penuriousness, he laughed and remindeme of something he had said one night i

he famine time when we were dining b

he help of a small windfall of mine. "

old you I should be a miser if the tidever turned," said he, "and you scoffed a

me. I assure you I can account for ever

dollar I have spent since the Midas bega

o pour them in."

This is his attitude as he defines it, bu

can qualify the accusation a little on th

friendly side. I should rather say that hhad set his mark at thrifty frugality. He i

not niggardly; in benevolences which ma

be paid for in the coin of effort he is stil



generous; and if he were living on

clerk's income people would commen

him.

But I fancy I hear you cry "Enough!

and this ends with the heartiest goo

wishes for you both.

Faithfully yours,

Robert Lansdale.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Lansdale had defined himself as

reporter on the "Coloradoan," but i

reality he was rather more,—or less,—

being that anomalous member of

newspaper staff known as the literar

editor. Kershaw had taken him i

doubtfully, and had afterward wonderedwhy a man with such an evident gift fo

ournalistic work should prefer to spen

his days and nights writing stories whic

no one would buy. For, contrary to alprecedent, when he could sink his literar

ambitions the fictionist proved to be

general utility journalist of no uncertai

ability, running the office gamut fro



proof-reading in an emergency to fillin

he editorial columns on the rar

occasions when Kershaw was absent.

It was during one of the Kershawa

absences that the letter to Bartrow wa

written; and the hands of the paper-weigh

clock on the desk were pointing to thsupper hour when Lansdale dropped th

pen and drew down the desk-curtain

Unlike his chief, he rarely ignored th

supper recess, though a walk in the opeair often took the place of the meal; an

having his night's work well in hand, h

et himself into the corridor, said "Down!

and was presently set afoot at the streeevel.

As usual, the swift rush down th

elevator-shaft dizzied him, and he had t



steady himself before he could go on

When he allowed himself to think about i

he realized that these dizzyings wer

growing commoner, and were set awhirby slighter exciting causes. Another man

or a man with another ailment, might hav

given the unnerving weakness its tru

name and place and succumbed to it; buLansdale 's métier had been love

ransformed into unflinching hopefulness

and the trivialities of the daily walk ha

come to be so many blind and desperat

sorties against the indrawing lines of th

relentless besieger. For of the two lion

standing in the way to the House Beautifuhat named Inequality had been slain b

he collapse of the Lodestar; wherefor

his other of Ill-health must either slay o

be slain, since love would not be denied.



This was what was in his resolute ste

when he went forth into the night; into th

whirl of life on the peopled streets an

sidewalks. Some vague supper promptingwere present, but a stronger impulse sen

him riverward, away from the thickl

peopled walks and down into th

wholesale district toward a shabbapartment building which had been lef

stranded on the bar of traffic when th

uptown tide had set in.

The little excursion was purposeless

as had been many another in the sam

direction; but when he found himsel

opposite the stairway of the shabbbuilding he wondered if he might not g

up and ask Constance for a cup of tea. H

was wise in his generation, and he ha



ong since discovered that the way t

Constance Elliott's heart lay throug

helpings accepted. With love aboundin

for any human soul at need, there werprecious reserves of tenderness for thos

o whom she might minister.

Lansdale glanced up at the two lightewindows on the third floor and crosse

he street. In the stair archway, which wa

dimly lighted by a single inefficient gas

et, he stumbled upon a bit of by-play, iwhich the actors were a man and a woma

eaning together across the stair-rail, and

barelegged boy spying upon the twai

from the dimnesses beyond. The littlableau fell apart at the sound of th

ntruder's footsteps. The boy vanishe

mysteriously, the woman ran upstairs, and



he man turned half angrily, as one faulted

t was Jeffard; and when he recognize

Lansdale he spoke quickly, as if to

forestall possible comment.

"Hello!—think of the devil and you'l

hear the clatter of his hoofs. I was jus

about to go up to the print-shop to see if could find you. Been to supper?"

"No; I was"—

Jeffard cut in again swiftly, wit

edgings streetward. "That's lucky; neithe

have I. Let's go up to the club."

Lansdale acceded rather reluctantlysince a cup of tea with Constance easil

outweighed the grill-room prospect.

"I'll go with you, though I can't promis



o play much of a knife and fork," he said

"I was just going up to ask Miss Elliott t

give me a cup of tea."

They were turning the corner above th

stranded apartment house before Jeffar

returned the shuttle of speech.

"So the Elliotts live down there now

do they?"

Lansdale said "Yes," and began to

rummage in recollection. Had Jeffard bee

on Constance Elliott's visiting list in th

prehistoric time? It was probable that h

had been,—with Dick Bartrow for hi

sponsor. But at this point recollectio

urned up the mental notes of a certain tal

with Bartrow, in which the downright on

had confessed his sins of omissio



Jeffardward. So Lansdale added a quer

o the affirmative.

"Yes; they live in the Thorson BlockDo you know them?"

Jeffard's reply was no reply. "I'll hav

o take time to think about it," he said; an

hey had traversed the necessary street

and found a table à deux in the grill-roo

at the club before he pieced out th

unfinished rejoinder.

"You asked me if I knew the Elliotts.

did know Miss Elliott,—as I knew som

of those people at Mrs. Calmaine's th

other evening. It's quite likely she does no

remember me."

Lansdale's brain went apart again, an



he reflective half of it continued th

rummaging. On the two or three occasion

when he had mentioned the newest star i

he bonanzine firmament Constance habeen visibly disturbed. The nature of he

resentment had not been quite obvious, bu

Jeffard's tardy rejoinder made it clear

She had known Jeffard and was sorry tbe reminded of him.

Lansdale had not done full justice t

himself in slurring his own point of viewn the letter to Bartrow. So far as he had

analyzed it he had been content to call i

negative, but it was not quite that. On th

contrary, it was complaisant, concernintself chiefly with the things of past sight

and not unduly with those of presen

rumor. Jeffard might be an indubitabl



scoundrel in his later reincarnation, a

certain of the mining-camp newspaper

had intimated in their accounts of the figh

for possession; but in the older time hhad been a good fellow and a generou

friend at a pinch. Lansdale remembere

some of the generosities, and his hear

went soft at the recollection of themKershaw had kept the secret of th

prearranged purchase of certain unusabl

manuscripts, but the pigeon-holes of

newspaper office are open archives, an

one day Lansdale had found a clue whic

he had followed out to his comforting;

string of hitherto unexplainable incidentswith two stanch friends at the end of it.

One of these loyal friends was the ma

at whom public opinion was now pointin



a dubious finger; and while Lansdale wa

munching his toast and drinking his cup o

weak tea in troubled silence, it began t

be discomfortingly evident that he muspresently take sides for or against the ma

whose hospitality he was at that momen

sharing. Left to itself, the insularity in hi

would have evaded the issue. Loyalty ohe crucible-test degree of fineness—th

oyalty of the single eye—must needs si

below the salt at the table of any analyst o

his kind; and Lansdale was a student firs

and a partisan only when benefits unforgo

constrained him. Moreover, frankness i

he last resort is rarely at its best in anvivisector of his fellow-men, and it wa

with no little difficulty that Lansdale mad

shift to overleap the barrier of reserve.



"Jeffard," he began, when the weak te

was low in the cup, "we used to be prett

near to each other in a time that I like t

remember; will you bear with me if I sawhat is in my mind?"

"Surely," said Jeffard; but the tone wa

not of assurance.

"You know what the newspaper

ntimated last fall, and what people ar

saying of you now?"

"Yes."

"And that your silence makes it rathe

hard for your friends?"

"I have no friends, Lansdale."

"Oh, yes, you have; or you would hav



f you would take the trouble to se

yourself aright."

"What if I cannot set myself aright?""I should be sorry to believe that,—

more than sorry to be driven to admit th

alternative."

"What is the alternative?"

Lansdale hesitated, as one who has hi

point at his adversary's breast and is loato drive it in. "I don't quite like to put it i

words, Jeffard; the English is a bit harsh

But you will understand that it is th

smiting of a friend. So long as you refuso say you didn't, the supposition is tha

you have robbed a man to whom you wer

under rather heavy obligations."



"Is that Bartrow's supposition?"

"He says it isn't, but I'm afraid the wis

s the father to the thought: in his case an—as in that of others." Lansdale adde

he inclusive in the hope that the woun

would be the better for probing.

Jeffard's laugh was altogether bitter

"'Give a dog a bad name,'" he quoted. "D

you know, I fancied Dick would b

obstinate enough to stand out against thapparent fact?"

"That is precisely what he has done

and with less reason than the most devote

partisan might demand. You know you

old him that the claim was Garvin's. H

wouldn't believe the newspaper story; h

nsisted that you would be able to 'square



yourself, as he phrased it, when you cam

out."

Jeffard was looking past hinterlocutor, out and beyond to where th

farther tables were emptying themselve

of the late diners.

"Yet it is his supposition; and you

own, you were going to say. Is it Mis

Elliott's also?"

Lansdale resisted the impulse t

rummage again, and said: "I don't know

hat—how should I know? But rumor ha

made the charge, and you have not denie

t."

"I don't mean to deny it—not even t

her. But neither have I admitted it."



"My dear Jeffard! aren't the facts a

admission?—at least, so long as the

stand uncontradicted."

"Everybody seems to think so,—and

can afford to be indifferent."

"Having the money, you mean?—

possibly. Am I to take that as an admissio

of the facts?"

"Facts are fixtures, aren't they? thing

not to be set up or set aside by admission

or denials. But you may take it as yo

please."

Lansdale shook his head as one whosdeprecation is too large for speech. "

can't begin to understand it, Jeffard,—th

motive which could impel a man of you



convictions, I mean."

Jeffard broke forth in revilings. "Wha

do you know about my convictions? Whado you know about anything in the heart o

man? You have a set of formulas which

you call types, and into which you try to fi

all human beings arbitrarily, each after hikind. It's the merest child's-play; a fallac

based on an assumption. No two men ca

be squared by the same rule; no two wil

do the same things under exactly similaconditions. Character-study is you

specialty, I believe; but you have yet to

earn that the human atom is a

rresponsible individuality."

"Oh, no, I haven't; I grant you that. Bu

ogically"—



"Logic has nothing whatever to do wit

t. It's ego, pure and unstrained, in most o

us; a sluggish river of self, with

quicksand of evil for its bottom."

Lansdale borrowed a gun of hi

antagonist, and sighted it accurately.

"What do you know about humanity a

a whole? What do you know about an

part of it save your own infinitesima

fraction?—which seems to be a ratheunfair sample."

Jeffard confessed judgment and pai

he costs. "I don't know very much abou

he sample, Lansdale. One time—it was i

he sophomore year, I believe—I thought

knew my own potentialities. But I didn't. I

any one had prophesied then that I had it i



me to do what I have done, I should hav

demanded a miracle to confirm it."

"But you must justify yourself tyourself," Lansdale persisted.

"Why must I? That is another of you

cut-and-dried formulas. So far fro

recognizing any such obligation, I may sa

hat I gave up trying to account for mysel

a long time ago. And if I have found i

mpossible, it isn't worth while for you try."

Lansdale was not the man to bruise hi

hands with much beating upon the barre

doors of any one's confidence. So he said

"I'm done. It's between you and you

conscience,—if you haven't eliminate

hat with the other things. But I had hope



you'd see fit to defend yourself. Th

eternal query is sharp enough without th

pointing of particular instances."

Jeffard squared himself, with hi

elbows on the table.

"Do you want an hypothesis, too?—a

another man did? Take this, and make the

most of it. You knew me and my lacks and

havings. You knew that I had reached a

point at which I would have pawned msoul for the wherewithal to purchase

short hour or two of forgetfulness. Hol

hat picture in your mind, and conceiv

hat a summer of unsuccessful prospectinhad not changed me for better or worse. I

he point of view unobstructed?"

"The point of view is your own, no



mine," Lansdale objected. "And

moreover, the summer did change you

because advancement in some direction i

an irrefrangible law. But go on."

"I will. This man whom you have i

mind was suddenly brought face to fac

with a great temptation,—great and subtleGarvin drove the tunnel on the Mida

hree years ago and abandoned it a

worthless. It was my curiosity which le

o the discovery of the gold. It was I whook the sample to the assayer and carrie

he news of the bonanza to Garvin. I migh

have kept the knowledge to myself, but

didn't. Why? do you ask? I don't know—perhaps because it didn't occur to me

What followed Bartrow has told you, bu

not all. Let us assume that the race t



Aspen was made in good faith; that thi

man who had put honor and good repor

behind him really meant to stand betwee

a drunken fool and the fate he was rushinupon. Can you go so far with me?"

Lansdale nodded. He was spellbound

but it was the artist in him and not the mawho hung breathless upon the edge o

expectancy.

"Very well; now for the crux. This manknelt behind a locked door and hear

himself execrated by the man he wa

rying to save; heard the first kindl

mpulse he had yielded to in monthdistorted into a desperate plan to rob th

cursing maniac. Is it past belief that h

crept away from the locked door and sa

down to ask himself in hot resentment wh



he should go on? Is it not conceivable tha

he should have begun to give ear to th

plea of self-preservation?—to say t

himself that if the maniac were no bettehan a lost man it was no reason that th

reasure should be lost also?"

It was altogether conceivable, anLansdale nodded again. Jeffard found

cigar and went on while he was clippin

he end of it.

"But that was not all. Picture this ma

at the crumbling point of resolutio

iptoeing to the door to listen again. H

has heard enough to convince him that thmiracle of fortune will be worse tha

wasted upon the drunken witling. Now h

s to hear that the besotted fool ha

already transferred whatever right he ha



n the Midas to the two despoilers; signe

a quitclaim, sold his miracle for a drink o

wo of whiskey, more or less. Are you

istening?"

Lansdale moistened his lips with th

ees of the tea in the empty cup, and said

"Yes; go on."

Jeffard sat back and lighted the cigar

"That's all," he said curtly. "It's enough

sn't it? You knew the man a year ago; yohink you know him now. What would h

do?"

If the hypothesis were intended to be

est of blind loyalty it missed the mark b

ust so much as the student of his kind mus

hold himself aloof from sympatheti

entanglements. Lansdale weighed th



evidence, not as a partisan, but rather a

an onlooker whose point of view wa

wholly extrinsic.

"I understand," said he; "the man woul

do as you have done. It's your own affair

As I said a few minutes ago, it is betwee

you and your private conscience. And dare say if the facts were known th

public conscience wouldn't condemn you

Don't you want to use the columns of th

Coloradoan'?"

Jeffard's negative was explosive. "D

you write me down a fool as well as

knave? Damn the public conscience!"

"Don't swear; I was only offering t

urn the stone for you if you've anything t

grind."



"I haven't. If I wanted the consent of th

majority I could buy it,—buy it if I ha

shot the maniac instead of letting hi

shoot me."

"Possibly; and yet you couldn't buy an

fraction of it that is worth having,

Lansdale asserted, with conviction"There are a few people left who have no

bowed the head in the house of Rimmon."

The cynical hardness went out oJeffard's eye and lip, and for the first tim

since the proletary's reincarnation

Lansdale fancied he got a brief glimpse o

he man he had known in the day osincerity.

"A few, yes; the Elliotts, father and

daughter, for two, you would say.



wonder if you could help me there."

"To their good opinion?—my dea

Jeffard, I'm no professional consciencekeeper!"

"No, I didn't mean that. What I had i

mind is a much simpler thing. A year ago

Miss Elliott gave me of her abundance

She meant it as a gift, though I made it

oan and repaid the principal—when

was able to. But I am still in her debtMeasured by consequences, which are th

only true interest-table, the earnings of he

small investment are hardly to b

computed in dollars and cents. Naturallyshe won't take that view of it, but that doe

not cancel my obligation. Will you help

me to discharge it? They need money."



Lansdale let the appeal simmer in th

pot of reflection. His inclination was t

refuse to be drawn into any suc

entanglement; but the opportunity to lesseby ever so little the burdens of the woma

he loved was not to be lightly set aside

one the less, the thing seeme

mpossible.

"I'm afraid it's too big for me, Jeffard;

shouldn't know how to go about it. Don

misunderstand me. I shouldn't stick at thnecessary equivocations; but if you know

Miss Elliott you must know tha

Machiavelli himself couldn't be insincer

with her. She would have to be told thruth, and"—

He left the sentence incomplete, an

Jeffard took it up at the break.



"And if she should acknowledge m

obligation—which she would not—sh

would refuse to be reimbursed out o

Garvin's money. That is why I haven't senher a note with a check in it. Will you

have another cup of tea?"

Lansdale took the query as a dismissaof the subject and pushed back his chair

On the way out they passed a late incomer

a florid man, with a nervous step and th

eye of preoccupation. He nodded tLansdale in passing, and Jeffard said, "D

you know him?"

"Yes; it's Finchly,—John Murray's manof business."

Jeffard had apparently relapsed int

he deeper depths of cynicism again.



"Yes, I know. That's the charitable

euphemism. Murray is a day laborer

ransmogrified by a lucky strike into

millionaire. He doesn't know enough twrite his own name, much less how t

keep a great fortune from dissolving, so h

hires a manager. It was a happy thought

What does Finchly get?"

Lansdale laughed. "A good living

doubtless."

"Of course; and much more, with th

pickings. But there is a salary which i

supposed to be the consideration, isn

here?"

"Oh, yes; and the figure of it varie

with the imagination of the gossips fro

en to fifty thousand a year."



Jeffard stopped to relight his cigar, and

Lansdale fancied that the Finchly quer

went out with the spent match. But Jeffar

revived it a square farther on.

"Suppose we assume, for the sake o

argument, that the man has a conscience

How much could he justly take for thservice rendered?"

They were at the entrance of th

"Coloradoan" building, and Lansdale tooout his notebook and made

memorandum.

"That is good for a column," he said

"'The Moral Responsibility o

Millionaire-Managers.' I'll answer you

question later, when I've had time to thin

t over."



"But, seriously," Jeffard insisted. "Is i

worth ten thousand a year?—or the half o

t? The man is only a cashier,—a high

class accountant at best."

"Finchly is much more than that; he i

Murray's brain as well as his pen-hand

But if he were only a money-counter, money-counter's salary would be enough

say two or three thousand a year, to b

iberal."

Jeffard nodded and was turning away

had in fact taken three steps streetward

when he came back to return to the subjec

dropped at the supper table as thoughere had been no hiatus.

"You were going to say she would

refuse to take Garvin's money, and I said i



for you. Would it make it any easier if

can assure you that the money I shall put i

your hands is honestly mine?—that Jame

Garvin has no claim, ethical or otherwiseupon it? Take time to consider it,—with

an eye to Miss Elliott's present need

rather than to my havings or wishes in th

matter."

Lansdale was off his guard, and th

human side of him came uppermost in th

swift rejoinder,—"Then you didn't tell mhe whole truth? The Midas is honestl

yours, after all?"

Jeffard turned away and snapped thash from his cigar. "Don't jump a

conclusions," he said. "It's always safer t

go on voting with the majority. What I sai

has nothing to do with the story of the ma



and his temptation; but the meanest labore

s worthy of his hire. I worked all winte

with pick and shovel in the Midas. Good

night."



CHAPTER XXIX

It was early in June when th

pneumatic drill in the Little Myriad wa

smashed by a premature blast, and th

master of the mine was constrained t

make a flying trip to Denver to replace it

As a matter of course, if not, indeed, o

necessity, Myra went with him. Theraveled by the night train, breakfasted o

canned viands out of the Pullman buffe

and so took Constance by surprise.

Myra had projects in view, som

Utopian and others more Utopian, with he

relatives for nuclei; and when Richard th

untactful had been sent about hi



machinery business, she settled down fo

a persuasive day with Constance. Now

Constance had been taken unawares, bu

she was of those who fight best at disadvantage, and the end of the day foun

he Utopian projects still in air, being held

n suspension by an obstinate youn

person who steadily refused to make oherself a vessel meet for condolence an

cousinly beneficence.

"It's no use, cuzzy dear; you shall havan option on the help stock when there i

any for sale, but at present there are n

quotations."

Thus Connie, at the very end of th

persuasive day. Upon which the youn

wife, with patience outwearing o

outworn, retorts smartly:—



"I suppose you think it's heroic—you

iving like this; but it isn't. It is just plai

poverty pride, which is all well enough t

keep the crowd out, but which is simplwicked when it makes you shut the door i

our faces. Think of it—you living here i

hree rooms at the top of a block when th

Myriad has begun to pay dividends! didn't mean to tell you just yet, but Dick i

going to buy back the Colfax Avenue

house, and it shall stand empty til

doomsday if you won't go and live in it."

In times not long past Connie woul

have returned railing for railing—wit

nterest added; but the reproachful day habeen no less trying to her than to Myra

and the poverty fight—and some others—

were sore upon her. Hence her disclaime



was of courageous meekness, with a smil

of loving appreciation to pave the way.

"I hope Dick will do no sucpreposterous thing—unless you want it fo

yourselves. You know it would be quite

out of the question for us to take it. Or t

do anything but make the best of what hahappened," she added.

Myra was standing at a window

ooking down into the street where thearly dusk was beginning to prick out th

point-like coruscations of the arc-lights

There was that in Connie's eyes whic

beckoned tears to eyes sympathetic; anshe found it easier to go on with her bac

urned upon the room and its othe

occupant.



"To make the best of it, yes; but you ar

not making the best of it. Or, if you are, th

best is miserably bad. You are looking

hin and wretched, as if—as if you didnget enough to eat."

There was a touch of the old-tim

resilience in Connie's laugh. "How cayou tell when you're not looking at me

ndeed, it hasn't come to that yet. We have

enough, and a little to spare for those wh

have less."

Myra had been searching earnestly al

day for some little rift into which th

wedge of helpfulness might be driven, anhere was an opening—of the vicariou

sort.

"Won't you let me be your purseholde



for those who have less, Connie? That i

he very least you can do."

Constance willed it thankfully. Aftehe trying day of refusals it was grateful t

find something that could be conceded.

"I believe I told you once that

wouldn't be your proxy in that way, didn

? But I will, now. You are so much better

han your theories, Myra."

Myra left the window at that, wrote

generous check before the concessio

should have time to shrink in the cooling

and then went over to sit on the denim

covered lounge with her arm around he

cousin's waist.

"Now that you have begun to b



reasonable, won't you go a step farther

Connie, dear? I know there are troubles

—lots of them besides the pinching. Can

you lean on me just a little bit? I do swant to help you."

Connie did it literally, with her face o

Myra's shoulder and a sob at the catchinof her breath. Myra let her take her ow

ime, as a judicious comforter will, an

when the words came they wrough

hemselves into a confession.

"Oh, Myra, I thought I was so strong

and I'm not!" she wept. "The bullet in

gun hasn't less to say about where it shalbe sent. I said it wasn't the pinch, but it i

—or part of it is. Poppa has set his hear

upon trying the mountains again, old as h

s, and he can't go because—because ther



sn't money enough to outfit him with wha

he could carry on his back!"

"And you would have let me gwithout telling me!" said Myr

reproachfully. "He shall have a whol

pack train of 'grub stake,'—is that what

should say?—and you shall come and stawith us while he is away. Consider that

rouble past, and tell me some more. You

don't know how delicious it is to b

permitted to pose as a small god in a car."

"Yes, I do," Connie responded, out of a

heartful of similar ecstasies. "But it isn't

rouble past: he won't let you do itEverybody has been offering to lend hi

money, and he won't take it."

"He will have to take it from me," sai



Myra, with prompt decision. "I'll mak

him. And when he goes, you will come to

us, won't you?"

Constance looked up with a smil

shining through the tears. "You're good

Myra, just like Dick! But I can't, yo

know. I must stay here."

"Why must you?" To the querist there

seemed to be sufficiently good reasons

from the point of view of the proprietiesfor setting Connie's decision asid

mandatorily, but Myra had grown warie

f not wiser in her year of cousin-kenning.

"There are reasons,—duties which

must not shirk."

"Are they namable?"



"Yes; Margaret is the name of one o

hem."

Myra's disapproval found vent igentle foot-tappings. To the moderately

compassionate on-looker it would see

hat Constance had long since filled tha

measure of responsibility,—filled andheaped it to overflowing. But again th

experienced one was discreet.

"As Dick would put it, you havangeled' Margaret for a year and more

sn't she yet able to stand alone?"

Connie's answer was prompt an

decisive. "Quite as well able as the bes

of us would be under similar conditions."

"I wouldn't make it conditional; bu



we've never been able to keep step in tha

ourney. Why is Margaret's cas

exceptional?"

"Did I say it was? It isn't. She is jus

one of any number of poor girls who ar

rying to live honestly, with the barriers o

nnocence all down and an overwhelminemptation always beckoning."

Myra shook her head. "That is makin

emptation a constraint, when it can nevebe more than a lure. I must confess I can

get far enough away from the conventiona

point of view to understand how a youn

woman like Margaret, who has been lifteand carried and set fairly upon her feet

could be tempted to go back to the utte

misery and degradation of the other life."



Constance spoke first to the sophism

and then to the particular instance.

"It is not true that temptation is alwaya lure. It is oftener a constraint. And yo

say you can't understand. It is terribl

simple. They sin first for a thing whic

hey mistake for love; but after that it is fobread and meat, and surcease from toi

which has become a mere frenzie

struggle to keep body and soul together

You don't know what it is to be poorMyra,—with the barriers down. Have yo

any idea how much Margaret earned las

week, working steadily the six days an

deep into the nights?"

"Oh, not very much, I suppose. But he

necessities are not large."



"Are they not? They are as large a

yours or mine. She must eat and drink an

have a bed to sleep on and clothes t

cover her. And to provide these she wapaid three dollars and eighty-five cents fo

her week's work; and two dollars of tha

had to go for rent. Is the temptation a lur

or a constraint in her case?"

Myra was silenced, if not convinced

and she went back to the fact existent wit

sympathy no more than seemingly aloof.

"You hinted at Margaret's peculia

besetment in one of your letters. Is tha

what you have to stay and fight?"

Constance nodded assent.

"I have been hoping you wer



mistaken. Dick is still loyally incredulous

sn't there a chance that you or Tommie, o

both of you, have taken too much fo

granted?"

Connie's "No" was almost inaudible

and there was chastened sorrow in he

voice when she went on to tell howTommie had seen Jeffard and Margare

ogether, not once, but many times; how

he man was always persuading, and th

woman, reluctant at first, was visiblyielding; how within a week Tommie had

seen Jeffard give her money.

"And she took it?" Myra queried.

"She didn't want to take it. Tommie

says she almost fought with him to mak

him take it back. But he wouldn't."



Myra's sympathy circled down, but i

alighted upon Connie. "You poor dear

after all your loving-kindnesses an

helpings! It's miserable; but you can't danything if you stay."

"Yes, I can. I couldn't stay alone, o

course, and she will give up her room ancome here to live with me. That will giv

me a better hold on her than I have now."

"But if you had a hundred eyes yocouldn't safeguard her against her will!"

"No; but it isn't her will,—it's his. And

he will not come here."

Myra's brows went together in a littl

frown of righteous indignation. "I shoul

hope not,—the wretch! You were right



after all, Connie, and I'll retract all th

charitable things Dick wanted me to say

He is too despicable"—

It was Connie's hand on the accusin

ips that cut short the indignan

arraignment.

"Please don't!" she pleaded. "He is al

hat you can say or think, but my ears ar

weary with my own repetitions of it."

Myra took the hand from her lips an

held it fast while she tried to search he

cousin's face. But the gathering dusk ha

mounted from the level of the street to tha

of the upper room, and it baffled the eye

questioning.

"Connie Elliott! I more than hal



believe"—She stopped abruptly, as i

here had been some dumb protest of th

mprisoned hand, and then went on with

swift change from accusation to gentlreproach. "I believe you have only jus

begun to tell me your troubles,—and I'v

been with you all day! What are som

more of them?"

"I have told you the worst of them,—o

at least that part of them which makes i

mpossible for me to go away. But there ianother reason why I ought to stay."

"Is that one namable, too?"

"Yes; but perhaps you won

understand. And you will be sure to tel

me it isn't proper. I think one of Mr

Lansdale's few pleasures is his comin



here."

"Few remaining pleasures, you woul

say, if you were not too tender-hearted. It wise, Connie?"

"Why not?—if it is a comfort to him?"

Myra hesitated, not because she hanothing to say, but because she knew no

how to say the thing demanded.

"You haven't given me leave to bequite frank with you, Connie. But it seem

o me that your kindness in this case is—i

mistaken kindness."

Constance's rejoinder was merely a

underthought slipping the leash. "It is no

o be expected that any one woul

understand," she said.



"But I do understand," Myra asserted

his time with better confidence. "I'm no

supposed to have the slightest inkling o

your feelings,—you've never lisped word to me,—but Mr. Lansdale's motive

are plain enough to be read in the dark. I

he were a well man he would have aske

you to marry him long ago."

"Do you think so?" said Constance hal

absently. "I'm not so sure about that. He i

far away from home and wretchedly iland he has many acquaintances and few

real friends."

"But he loves you," Myra persisted.

"He has never said anything like that t

me."



"It is quite possible that he never wil

n view of the insurmountable obstacle."

"His ill-health, you mean? Myra, dearyou surely know love better than that—

now. Love is the one thing which wil

both sow and reap even in the day whe

he heavens are of brass and the earth is barren desert."

The under-roar of traffic in the stree

made the silence in the upper room moreffective by contrast; like the sense o

solation which is often sharpest in

ostling throng. Myra rose and went to th

window again, coming back presently tstand over Constance and say, "I suppos

t is ordained that you should be a marty

o somebody or something, Connie, dear

and when the time comes I'm not going t



say you nay, because I think you will b

happier that way. If Mr. Lansdale should

be tempted to say that which I am sure h

has determined not to say, is your answeready?"

Connie's hands were clasped over on

knee, and the poise was of introspectivbeatitude. But the answer to Myra's quer

was not irrelevant.

"He is the truest of gentlemen; whawould your answer be, Myra?"

It was the young wife in Myra Bartrow

hat precious bit of clay as yet plasti

under the hand of the master-potter, tha

prompted the steadfast reply.

"If I loved him as I ought, I should pra



God to make me unselfish enough to sa

yes, Connie."

"So should I," said Constance simplyand Myra made the lighting of the lamp a

excuse for the diversion which the thre

soft-spoken words demanded. And whe

she went back to the matter of fact, shouched lightly upon what she conceive

o be a wound yet far from healing.

"You have silenced me, Connie, but can at least provide for the contingency. I

he event shapes itself so that you are fre

o come to us, don't let Margaret stand i

he way. Bring her with you, and we'lfind room and work for her."

Connie's eyes were shining, but ther

was a loving smile struggling with th



ears. "I said you were good, like Dick

Myra, dear, and I can't put it any stronger

f I don't take you at your word, it will no

be for anything you have left unsaid. Isnhat Dick coming?"

It was. There was a double step in th

corridor, and Bartrow came in witStephen Elliott. Since the battl

persuasive with the daughter had kept he

single-eyed, Myra had had but brie

glimpses of the father during the day; bunow she remarked that his step was a littl

ess firmly planted than it had been in tha

holiday time when he had played th

unwonted part of escort in ordinary to twyoung women who had dragged hi

whither they would,—and whither h

would not. Moreover, there was the loo



of the burden-bearer in his eyes, thoug

heir fire was undimmed; and an air o

belated sprightliness in his manner whic

went near to Myra's heart, because shknew it came of conscious effort. Thes

ottings and others, the added stoop of th

shoulders, and the lagging half-step to th

rear in entering, as of one who may nonger keep pace with younger men, Myr

made while Dick was timing the dash fo

heir train.

"Thirty-five minutes more, and we'l

quit you,—say, Uncle Steve, that clock o

yours is slow,—that's half an hour fo

supper, and five minutes for the yum-yumat the car-step. Gear yourselves, you two

and we'll all go and make a raid on th

supper-room at the station."



"Indeed, we sha'n't," said Connie, i

hospitable protest. "You are going to ea

bread and butter and drink strong tea o

he top floor of the Thorson Block. I'vhad the water cooking for an hour, and yo

sha'n't make me waste gasoline in any suc

way."

Dick would have argued the point wit

her; was, in fact, beginning the counter

protest, when Myra stopped him.'

"Of course we'll stay," she assented

"You go with Connie and help make the

ea, Dick. I haven't begun to have a visi

with Uncle Stephen yet."

Bartrow gave up the fight and was le

captive of the small one to the roo

across the corridor which served as



kitchen. Left alone with his sister'

daughter, Stephen Elliott had a sudde

return of the haltingnesses which th

Philadelphia niece, newly arrived, used tnspire; but Myra asked only for a

acquiescent listener.

"Uncle Stephen," she began, pinninhim in the lounge-corner from which ther

was no possibility of escape, "I've bee

wanting to get at you all day, and I wa

afraid you weren't going to give me chance. You have 'grub-staked' a lot o

people, first and last, haven't you?"

The old man eyed her suspiciously foa moment, and then evidently banished th

suspicion as a thing unworthy.

"Why, yes; I have staked a good few o



hem, first and last, as you say."

"I knew it, and I wanted to ask

question. How much money did yousually give them?"

The suspicion was well lulled by this

and finding himself upon familiar ground

he pioneer went into details.

"That depended a good deal upon th

other fellow. Some of them—most of 'em

was going to say—couldn't be truste

with money at all, and I'd go buy them a

outfit and stay with them till they got out o

range of the saloons and green tables."

"But when you found one whom yo

could trust, how much money did you giv

him? I'm not idly curious; I know a ma



who wants to go prospecting, and I hav

promised to 'stake' him."

The suspicion raised its head againand was promptly clubbed int

submission. Some one of the Myriad me

wanted to try his luck, and he ha

"braced" the wife rather than the husbandSo thought the pioneer, and made answe

accordingly.

"I wouldn't monkey with it, if I weryou, Myra; leastwise, not without lettin

Dick into it. He's right on the ground, an

he'll tell you how much you'd ought to pu

up; or—what's more likely—if yooughtn't to tell the fellow to stick to hi

day-pay in the mine."

"Dick knows," said Myra, anticipatin



he exact truth by some brief hour or so

"and he's quite willing. But you know

Dick; if I should leave it with him h

would give the man all he had and go anborrow for himself. I want a good sobe

conservative opinion,—not to

conservative, you know, but just abou

what you would need if you were goinout yourself."

Elliott became dubitantly reflective

being divided between a desire to sparMyra's purse and a disposition born o

fellow-feelings to make it as easy as migh

be for the unknown beneficiary.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, at length

"If the fellow is going by himself, he won

need much; but if he takes a partner it'l

ust about double the stake. Is he going t



play it alone?"

Myra could see through the open doo

nto the adjoining room, and she sawConnie bringing in the tea. Time wa

growing precious, if the conclusion wer

not to be tripped up by an interruption.

"I suppose he'll take a partner; the

always do, don't they? Anyway, I want to

make it enough so that he can if h

chooses. Please tell me how much."

"Well, if he knows how to cut the

corners and how to outfit so as to make th

most of what he has, he'd ought to be abl

o do it on a couple of hundred or so. But

don't know if that ain't pretty liberal," h

added, as if upon second thought.



Myra went quickly to the table unde

he lamp, and wrote upon a slip of paper

Elliott thought she was making a note o

her information; and when she put thcheck into his hands he took i

mechanically. But her hurried explanatio

drove the firing-pin of intelligence.

"It's for you—you are the man, Uncl

Stephen; and if it isn't enough, it's you

own fault." She said it with one eye on th

wo in the next room, and with nerves tautbraced for the shock of refusal. The shoc

came promptly.

"Oh—say—here! Myra, girl; I canake this from you!" He was on his feet

rying to give back the check; and as sh

eluded him he followed her about th

room, protesting as he went. "It's just lik



you to offer it, but I can't, don't you see

'll rope somebody else in; somebody tha

knows the chances. Here, take it back,—

'm getting pretty old, and just as like anot I won't find anything worth assaying

Come, now; you be a good girl, and"—

He had driven her into a corner, and iwas time for the coup de main. So she pu

her arms about his neck and her face o

his shoulder, and if the attack patheti

were no more than a clever bit of feigningStephen Elliott was none the wiser.

"I—I'd like to know what I have done!

she quavered. "You'd take it from astranger—you said you would—an

you've made me just the same as your ow

daughter, and now you wo—won't let m

do the first little thing I've ever had



chance to do!"

There were more strong solvents of

similar nature in reserve, but they wernot needed. The good old man wa

helplessly soluble in any woman's tears

real or invented; and his fine resolutio

melted and the bones of it became awater.

"There, there, little girl, don't you tak

on like that. I'll keep it. See? I've chucket right down into the bottom of m

pocket"—he was stroking her hair an

otherwise gentling her as if she were

hurt child. "Don't you fret a little bit. I'lspend it—every last cent of it—just th

way you want me to. You mustn't cry

another tear; Dick'll think I've bee

abusing you, and he'll fire the old uncl



out of one of these high windows. Haven

you got any handkerchief?"

Connie and Dick were at the doorannouncing the bread and butter and tea

and Myra's handkerchief became

convenient mask for the moment. A les

simple-hearted man than the old pioneemight have suspected the sincerity of suc

ears as may be wiped away at a word

eaving no trace behind them; but Ellio

was too child-like to know aught of thfine art of dissimulation, and he too

Myra's sudden return to cheerfulness as

ribute to his own astuteness in yielding

point at the critical moment.

At the tea-table they were all more o

ess hilarious, each having somewhat t

conceal from the others; and even Bartrow



was made to feel the thinness of the ic

upon which the trivialities were skating

Much to Connie's surprise, the tactless on

developed unsuspected resources oadroitness in keeping the table-talk a

concert-pitch of levity; and she forgav

him when he was brutal enough to make

est of the simple meal, giving the breaand butter a new name with each asking

and accusing her of being in league wit

he commissary department of th

sleeping-car company. It spoke volume

for Dick's growth in perspicacity that h

was able to discern the keen edge of th

crisis without having actually seen thstone upon which it had been whetted; an

n the midst of her own fencings with th

ensities, Constance found time to wonde

how Myra had wrought even the beginnin



of such a miracle in the downright one.

In such resolute ignorings of th

moving realities the supper interval wasafely outworn; but when, at the end of it

Dick dragged out his watch and calle

"time," Constance found her tea too ho

and the drinking of it brought tears to heeyes. Whereupon the brutal one made a

exaggerated pretense of sympathy, offerin

her a handkerchief; and the laugh save

hem all until the good-bys were said, anhe guests, with Elliott to speed thei

parting, had gone to the station.

Constance stood in the empty corridountil the farther stair ceased to echo thei

footsteps. The day-long strain was off a

ast, and she meant to go quickly and clea

off the table and wash the supper dishes



o the end that the reaction might no

overwhelm her. But on the way sh

stopped at the little square table in th

arger room and took a letter from ithiding place at the back of a frame

photograph. It was a double inclosure i

an outside envelope which bore th

business card of a well known legal firmand the wrapping of the inner envelop

was a note on the firm's letter-head

stating in terse phrase that the inclose

etter had been found under the door of a

unoccupied house in Colfax Avenue by the

writer in the early summer of the previou

year; that it had been mislaid; and that iwas now forwarded with many regrets fo

ts unintentional suppression.

Constance read the note mechanically



as she had read it the day before when th

postman had brought it. It explaine

nothing more than the mere fact of delay

but she understood. The writer of the losetter, or his messenger, had thrust it unde

he door of the wrong house.

She laid the note aside and tilted thenvelope to let a coin fall into her palm. I

was a double-eagle piece, little worn, bu

he memories which clustered about it

giving and taking seemed to dull the lustrof the yellow metal. It was the price o

sorrowful humiliation, no whit less to th

man who had taken than to the woman wh

had given it. She put it that way in anflexible determination to be just. Truly

his acceptance of it was a thing to b

remembered with cheek-burnings o



shame; but she would not hold hersel

blameless. In the light of that which hi

etter disclosed, her charitable impuls

became a sword to slay the last remnant omanly pride and self-respect—if an

remnant there were.

She opened the letter and re-read it the end, going back from the scarcel

egible signature to a paragraph in th

midst of it that bade fair to grave itsel

neffaceably upon her heart.

"You may remember that I said

couldn't tell you the truth, because i

concerns a woman. When I add that thwoman is yourself, you will understand.

ove you; I think I have been loving yo

ever since that evening which you said w

were to forget—the evening at the theatre



Strangely enough, my love for you isn

strong in the strength which saves. I wen

from you that night when you had bidde

me God-speed at Mrs. Calmaine's, anwithin the hour I was once more

penniless vagabond.

"When you were trying to help me thiafternoon, I was trying to keep from sayin

hat which I could never have a right t

say. You pressed me very hard in your

sweet innocence"....

She sat down and the letter slippe

from her fingers. The hurt was a year i

he past, but time had not yet dulled thpain of it. Not to any human soul, nor ye

o her own heart, had she admitted the on

iving fact which stood unshaken; whic

would stand, like some polished corner



stone of a ruined temple, when all els

should have crumbled into dust. For whic

cause she sat with clasped hands and eye

hat saw not; eyes that were still deepwells and clear, but brimming with th

bitter waters of a fountain which flow

only for those whose loss is irreparable

And while she wept, the sorrowful underhought slipped into speech.

"He calls it love, but it couldn't hav

been that. He says it wasn't strong in thstrength that saves; and love is alway

mighty to succor the weak-hearted.

would have believed in him—I di

believe in him, only I didn't know how thelp. But no one could help when he didn

believe in himself; and now he is jus

drifting, with the cruel sword o



opportunity loose in its scabbard, and al

he unspeakable things dragging hi

whithersoever they will.... And he mean

o end it all when he wrote this letter; know he did. That would have bee

errible; but it would have been brave

han to go on to robbery, and unfaith, and

—and now to this last pitiless iniquityOh, I can't let it go on to that!—not if

have to go and plead with him for the sak

of that which he once thought was—love.

She went down upon her knees with he

face hidden in the chair-cushion, and th

unconscious monologue became

passionate beseeching: "O God, help mo be strong and steadfast, that I may no

fail when I come to stand between thes

wo; for Thou knowest the secrets of th

heart and all its weakness; and Tho



knowest"—



CHAPTER XXX

The Bartrows, with Stephen Elliott t

expedite their outsetting, caught their trai

with nothing to spare; and while th

goggle-eyed switch-lamps were stil

flashing past the windows of the sleeping

car, Myra settled herself comfortably i

her corner of the section and demandehe day's accounting.

Bartrow was rummaging in the hand

bag for his traveling-cap, and he looke

up with a most transparent affectation o

surprise.

"Hah? Wasn't I supposed to be chasing



around all day trying to buy a rock-drill?"

Myra ignored the skilless parry an

hrust home. "Don't tease," she said. "Youdid beautifully at the supper-table, and

am quite sure Connie didn't suspect. But

want to know what has happened."

Bartrow laughed good-naturedly

"Same old window-pane for you to loo

hrough, am I not? It's lucky for me that I'

a rattling good fellow, with nothinparticular inside of me to be ashamed of.

He was thumbing a collection of pocket

worn papers, and presently handed her

crisp bill of exchange for five hundred anforty-five dollars. "What do you think o

hat for one of the happenings!"

She read the figure of it and the date. "



don't understand," she said. "Where di

you get it?"

"You wouldn't guess in a thousandyears. It's the money I borrowed fo

Jeffard one fine morning last fall, wit

bank interest to date."

"Then you have seen him?"

"Saw him, felt of his hand, and went t

uncheon with him."

"Dick! And you really had the courag

o ask him for this?"

Bartrow's smile was a grimace. "Donyou sit there and tempt me to lie about i

You know what a fool I am with a debtor

Fortunately, I didn't have to ask; it cam

about as most things do in this world—



click! buzz! boom! and your inferna

machine has exploded. We cannoned

against each other as I was going into th

bank to get the money for the machinerman. After we'd said 'Hello,' and shoo

hands, Jeffard went in with me. On th

way out the cashier stopped us. 'Mr

Jeffard,' says he, 'your personal accounhas a credit of five hundred dollars whic

doesn't appear in the deposits. If you'll le

me have your book I'll enter it.' 'A credit

—of five hundred dollars? I don

understand,' says Jeffard. 'It's all right

says the cashier. 'It came from th

Carbonate City National, in LeadvilleDidn't they notify you?' 'No,' says Jeffard

it must be a mistake. I had no credit i

Leadville.' All this time the cashier wa

digging into his pigeonholes. 'You mus



have had,' says he. 'I can't put my hand o

heir letter, but as I recall it, they said th

money was a remittance made by yo

sometime last year to cover a promissornote. When it reached them the note ha

matured and had been lifted. They hav

kept your money a good while, but the

claim not to have known your address.'"

Myra was listening with somethin

more than curiosity.

"What did Mr. Jeffard say?" she asked

"He looked a good deal more than h

said; and what he said was rather queer

When he had pulled me a little aside, h

it a cigar and offered me one, as cool a

ce. 'Of course, you'll understand that thi

was all prearranged between Mr. Holbur



and myself,' says he. 'It would be too grea

a tax upon your credulity to ask you t

believe that it is merely a coincidence

hat I really did send the money to thLeadville bank to lift that note month

ago.' I said No, and meant it; and he wen

over to the exchange window and mad

out a check and bought that draft. Buafterward I could have kicked him fo

making that suggestion. I couldn't brea

away from it to save my life, and it stuc

o me straight through to the finish."

"But you went to luncheon with hi

afterward. Didn't he explain?"

"Not a word. I tried my level best t

pull the thing out of the hole two or thre

imes, but it was buried too deep for me

And somehow that idiotic sneer of hi



seemed to color everything he said. H

seemed to take it for granted that I'd bee

setting him down all these months for

scalawag, and everything I could say gowisted into a slap. We worried through

he meal, and the cigars after it, in som

sort of thankless fashion; but I wouldn't d

t again for a farm."

Myra became reflectively thoughtfu

and with the jarring of the car the bit o

money paper fell to the floor. Dicrecovered it, put it away, and waited

patiently for her comment. When it came i

was no more than a leading question.

"What do you make of it, Dick?"

"I don't know what to make of it. If

could break away from all the things



used to know about him, I should say h

acts like a man who has done something t

make him declare war upon himself, an

—as a natural consequence—upoeverybody else. He seems to be ready t

fight at the drop of the hat, and that's a ba

symptom."

"It is a symptom of a guilty conscience

sn't it?"

Bartrow did not answer at once. Tospeak by the fact was to admit that all hi

oyal upholdings of Jeffard had been spen

upon an unworthy object, and he wa

reluctant in just proportion to his loyaltyBut the fact was large—too large to b

overleaped.

"It is a symptom, yes; and I'm beginnin



o be afraid it's a true one in Jeffard'

case. I didn't find a soft spot in hi

anywhere till we came to speak o

Lansdale."

"They are still friends?"

"Y—es, in a way; a sort of give-and

ake way. Lansdale is cool and prett

well-calculated in his friendships as i

everything else; and I imagine h

forgathers with Jeffard without prejudico his own private convictions in th

Garvin affair. It's a bit odd, but Jeffard

seems to have most of the remembrance

on his side."

"The kindly ones, you mean?"

"Yes. I hadn't seen Lansdale yet, and



asked Jeffard how he was looking. H

wagged his head, and there was a look i

his eyes that I'd seen there more than onc

n the old days. 'Unless there is somethino be done more than has been tried, it'

only a question of weeks,' said he; an

hen he went back to something I had sai

hat morning in Leadville just before hclimbed the engine for the race to Aspen."

Myra's eyebrows arched a query, and

he elucidated.

"Didn't I tell you? We had been talking

about Connie, and I had hinted that she'

be willing to buy health for Lansdale at price; and he"—

Myra cut in swiftly. "Has she told yo

hat, Dick?"



"Hardly; but I've eyes, haven't I? Well

as I was saying, Jeffard went back to that

and asked if Lansdale's recovery stil

meant as much to Connie. I told him hought it meant rather more than less; an

hen he went into his shell, and when h

came out it was on the human side. Sai

he had money to burn now, and asked ihere was anything anybody could do t

give Lansdale a better show for his whit

alley. I told him what I'd do if I could

break away from the Myriad."

"I remember; you said you would tak

him afield."

"Yes. Rig up a team and a camping

outfit, and chase him out into th

mountains. Make him live outdoors for

month or two, and belt him over the hea



f I ever caught him sharpening a lea

pencil. He's grinding away with Kershaw

nights and Sundays, and trying to write

novel between times. It's a clear case owork-to-death."

Myra nodded. "I think so; I hav

hought so all along. But he wouldn't gwith Mr. Jeffard."

"That's what I thought, and what I tol

Jeffard when he hinted at the thing. But wwere both off; and that brings me to th

other happening. After we'd smoked ove

t—Jeffard and I—we went around an

hunted up Lansdale's doctor. Thmedicine-man agreed with me that it wa

he only chance, but he didn't give us muc

encouragement. Said it was a forlor

hope, with the odds against Lansdale; tha



he'd die if he didn't go, and woul

probably die if he did. Jeffard had been i

and out of his shell two or three time

since the beginning of it, but he came ouagain at that and stayed out. Said he owe

Lansdale, and that would be a good wa

o wipe out the account. I told him tha

wouldn't go; that if he wanted to dLansdale a good turn, he'd have to do it o

ts merits. 'I sha'n't be such a fool as to tel

Lansdale I'm trying to square up with him

says he. 'You go and persuade him.'"

Myra's hand was on his knee. "You

poor boy!" she said; "they always unloa

he thankless things on you, don't theyDid you try?"

"Sure. If I'd felt like hanging back,

sight of Lansdale would have done th



business for me. It's awful, little woman

've seen dead men, and men that wer

going to die, but never a dying one tha

wanted so hard to live. Of course, hkicked clear over the traces when

proposed it, though I lied like

whitehead, and tried to make him believ

t was my scheme to help Jeffard get cureof his case of mental and moral 'jimmies

When that failed, I dug right down to hard

pan. 'You want to live, don't you?' said I

and when he admitted it, I biffed hi

square on the point of the jaw. Says I

Then it's a question of your stiff-necke

ew England pride against your love for ittle girl who would give her right hand t

see you well and strong, is it? You're no

as good a man as I thought you were.'"



Myra was moved to protest. "Oh, Dick

do hope you haven't taken too much fo

granted! But go on; what did he say?"

"I thought he'd rise up and fall on me a

first; but he didn't. He mumbled somethin

about the 'precious balms of a frien

breaking his head,' and said I waaltogether mistaken; that Connie was onl

an angel of mercy, one of God's littl

ones, and a few other things of that sort."

"'Only'!" laughed Myra.

"Yes, 'only.' But I could see that my

shoulder-blow had knocked him out. H

switched the talk to Jeffard, and prett

soon he was asking me if I really though

he could do any good in that quarter; or i

my saying so was merely a lie cut out o



whole cloth. I was soaked through by tha

ime, and another plunge more or les

didn't cut any figure, so I told him it wasn

a lie; that there was still hope for Jeffarf any one would lay hold of him and stic

o him. 'What kind of hope, Dick?' says he

And I said, 'The only kind that counts; th

kind that'll make him all through what hs in part.' He shook his head at that, an

said, 'I don't know. That would mea

repentance and restitution,—and th

money's got its teeth into him now.' I'l

have to admit that I was arguing dea

against the probabilities, and I knew it; bu

wouldn't let go."Myra's smile was tempered wit

affectionate pride. "You never do let go

Did he finally listen to reason?"



"Yes, at the end of it. But if it were six

for himself and Connie, it was a goo

half-dozen for Jeffard. 'I'll go, Dick,' sai

he. 'I'm afraid your assumptions are algood-hearted wishes, but I'll go. Perhaps

f it comes to the worst, God will give m

a man for my leave-taking.' That was

new side of him, to me; the Puritan sidesn't it?"

"The human side," she amended. "It i

merely crusted a little thicker in thPuritan family."

"But it's there, all the same. Out here

where the horizons and other things arpretty wide open, we're apt to say wha

we think, and pretty much all of it; bu

Lansdale and his kind think a good bi

more and keep it to themselves. He's al



right. I only wish his getting well were a

sure as the goodness of him. Are you

getting sleepy? Want your berth made

down?"

"Presently." Myra was gazing out at th

night-wall slipping past the car windows

and for her the thick blackness mirrored picture of a sweet-faced young woma

sitting on a denim-covered lounge, wit

her hands tight clasped over one knee an

her eyes alight with a soft starglow ocompassion. And because of the picture

she said: "I'm afraid you didn't take to

much for granted, Dick; and I could almos

wish it were otherwise. It is heartbreaking to think of it."

Dick went over to a seat beside her

and tried to put himself as nearly a



possible at her point of view.

"Let's not try to cross their bridges fo

hem beforehand, little woman," he saidwith his lips at her ear. "Life is prett

middling full for all of us,—for us two, a

any rate."

It was five minutes later, and the train

had stopped for orders at the canyo

gateway, when she turned to him to say

"What do you think about Mr. Jeffard nowDick? Are we all mistaken? or is he th

hardened cynic he seems to be?"

Bartrow did not reply on the spur o

he moment, as was his custom. When h

had reasoned it out, he said:—

"I think we ought to break away fro



he notion that a man has got to be eithe

all angel or all devil. Jeffard's a huma

man, like the rest of us. He's done som

good things that I know of,—and onpretty bad one; and it's the bad one that i

setting the pace for him just now. But, as

once said to Lansdale, I'm betting on th

finish. One bad curve needn't spoil whole railroad."

Myra's hand sought and found his unde

cover of her wrap. "You are loyalty itselfDick, and I can't help loving you for it. Bu

you say 'one bad one.' Have you forgotte

he Irish girl?"

Dick set his jaw at that, and the bi

hand closed firmly over the small one.

"When I have to believe that of him



Myra, my faith in my kind will drop bac

more notches than one. That would mak

him all devil, don't you see?"

But her charity outran his. "No, Dick;

don't quite see it. It is just one more coil i

he puzzle-tangle of good and evil that yo

spoke of. Connie knows it, and if she cafind it in her heart to forgive him"—

There was reverent awe in Bartrow'

rejoinder. "Do you mean to say she'dforgive him— that ?"

The intermittent clatter and roar of th

canyon climb had begun, and in one of th

breathing spaces Myra made answer.

"She is one of God's little ones, as Mr

Lansdale said. I think she would forgiv



him even that." And in the next gap in th

clamor, "Did you tell him about Garvin?"

Dick shook his head. "No, I didn't daro. It's a hard thing to say, but I'm not sur

he wouldn't prosecute Jim for the attemp

o kill. There's no such vindictiveness i

he world as that which dates back tbenefits forgot. But I told Lansdale, an

gave him leave to make use of it if th

ime should ever come when he could d

t without jeopardizing Garvin."

At which Myra's charity stumbled an

fell and ran no more.

"That time will never come, Dick. Mr

Jeffard has a double feud with Garvin,—

he is Garvin's debtor for benefits forgo

as you say; and he has done Garvin a



njury. I am glad you didn't tell him."



CHAPTER XXXI

"She's gone to her rest, at last, poo

soul, and it's happy she'd be if it wasn't fo

he childer."

Constance had been waiting through th

ong hours of the afternoon for Margaret'

return from Owen David's shanty on th

orth Side; waiting for the summons to th

death-bed of the mother of Owen David'

children. She had promised to go

wherefore her heart smote her and th

ready tears welled up at Margaret'

announcement.

"Oh, Margaret! Why didn't you com



for me!"

"'Twas no use at all, Miss Constance

twas her last word she said to you thimorning, when she asked you to try onc

more with Owen for the childer's sake

When you'd gone she turned her face to th

wall, and we never knew when her souwent out."

"Was Owen there?"

"He was; and it's sober he was for th

first time in many a day. He took it hard

hem Welsh are flighty people, anyway."

"He ought to take it hard," saiConstance, with as near an approach t

vindictiveness as the heart of compassio

would sanction. "Has everything bee



done?"

Margaret nodded. "The neighbors wer

hat kind; and it's poor hard-workinpeople they are, too."

"I know," said Constance. She wa

making ready to go out, and she found he

purse and counted its keepings. They wer

as scanty as her will to help wa

plenteous. Myra's check had bee

generous, but the askings were many, andhere was no more than the sweet savor o

t left. "I'm sure I don't know what Owe

will do," she went on. "I suppose ther

sn't money enough to bury her."

Margaret had taken off her hat an

acket and she was suddenly impelled t

go to work. The lounge-cover was awry



and in the straightening of it she said:—

"Don't you be worrying about that

now, Miss Constance. It was Owehimself that was giving me the money fo

he funeral when I was leaving."

"Owen? Where did he get it? He hasn

had a day's work for a month."

Margaret was smoothing the cover an

shaking the pillows vigorously. "Sure

hat's just what I was thinking" (slap

slap), "but I've his money in my pocke

his blessed minute. So you just go and sa

a sweet word to the childer, Mis

Constance, and don't you be worryin

about anything."

Connie's hand was on the door-knob



but she turned with a sudden sinking of th

heart, and a swift impulse that sent he

across the room to Margaret's side.

"Margaret, you gave Owen that mone

before he gave it to you. Where did yo

get it?"

Margaret left off beating the pillow

and slipped upon her knees to bury he

face in one of them.

"I knew you'd be asking that," sh

sobbed, and then: "Haven't I been workin

honest every day since Christmas? And

does it be taking all I earn to keep me, I'

ike to know?"

Constance went down on her knee

beside the girl, and what she said was t



One who was merciful even to th

Magdalenes. When she rose the pain of i

was a little dulled, and she went back t

he charitable necessities in a word.

"Is there any one to watch with her to

night, Margaret?"

The girl lifted a tear-stained face, an

he passionate Irish eyes were swimming

and Constance turned away because he

oving compassion was greater than hedetermination to be judicially severe.

"I'm one," Margaret answered; "an

Mrs. Mulcahey'll come over when he

man gets home."

"Very well. I'll go over and give the

children their suppers and put them to bed



'll stay till you come, and you can brin

Tommie to take me home."

Constance went upon her missioheavy-hearted; and in the hovel across th

river found comfort in the giving o

comfort. The David children were al

ittle ones, too young to fully realize theioss; and when they had been fed an

hushed to sleep, and one of David's fellow

workmen had taken the husband away fo

he night, Constance sat down in the roowith the dead to wait for Margaret. For

heart less pitiful or a soul less steadfast

he silence of the night and the solitar

watch with the sheeted figure on the bemight have been unnerving; but in all he

ife Constance had never had to recko

with fear. Hence, when the door opened



behind her without a preliminary knock

and a footstep crossed the threshold, sh

hought it was one of the neighbors an

rose softly with her finger on her lip. Buwhen she saw who it was, she starte

back and made as if she would retreat t

he room where the children were.

"You!" she said. "Why are you here?"

"I beg your pardon." Jeffard said i

deferentially, almost humbly. "I didnexpect to find you here; I was looking fo

—for the man, you know. What ha

become of him?"

The hesitant pause in the midst of th

explanation opened the door for a swif

suspicion,—a suspicion too horrible to b

entertained, and yet too strong to be drive



forth. There was righteous indignation i

her eyes when she went close to him an

said:—

"Can you stand here in the presence o

hat"—pointing to the sheeted figure on th

bed—"and lie to me? You expected to

meet Margaret Gannon here. You havemade an appointment with her—a

assignation in the house of the dead

Shame on you!"

It should have crushed him. It did fo

he moment. And when he rallied it wa

apparently in a spirit of the sheeres

hardihood.

"You are right," he said; "I did expec

o meet Margaret. With your permission

'll go outside and wait for her."



She flashed between him and the doo

and put her back to it.

"Not until you have heard what I havo say, Mr. Jeffard. I've been wanting to

say it ever since Tommie told me, but you

have been very careful not to give me

chance. You know this girl's story, andwhat she has had to fight from day to day

Are you so lost to every sense of justic

and mercy as to try to drag her back int

sin and shame after all her pitifustrugglings?"

"It would seem so," Jeffard retorted

and his smile was harder than his words"It is quite conceivable that you shoul

believe it of the man who once took you

charity and made a mock of it. May I g

now?"



"Oh, no, not yet; not until you hav

promised me to spare and slay not, for thi

once. Think of it a moment; it is the pric

of a human soul! And it is such a littlhing for you to concede."

The hard smile came and went again.

"Another man might say that Margare

has come to be very beautiful, Mis

Elliott."

The indignation was gone out of he

eyes, and her lips were trembling.

"Oh, how can you be so hard!" sh

faltered. "Will nothing move you?"

He met the beseeching with a stead

gaze that might have been the outlookin

of a spirit of calm superiority or the col



stare of a demon of ruthlessness. The mer

suggestion of the alternative made her ho

and cold by turns.

"I wonder that you have the courage t

appeal to me," he said, at length. "Are yo

not afraid?"

"For Margaret's sake I am not afraid."

"You are very brave—and very loyal

Do you wonder that I was once moved t

ell you that I loved you?"

"How can you speak of that here—an

now!" she burst out. "Is there no measur

of the hardness of your heart? Is it noenough that you should make me beg fo

hat which I have a right to demand?"

He went apart from her at that to wal



softly up and down in the narrow spac

between the bed and the wall,—to wal

for leaden-winged minutes that seeme

hours to Constance, waiting for hianswer. At the final turn he lifted the shee

from the face of the dead woman an

ooked long and earnestly, as one who

would let death speak where life wadumb and inarticulate. Constance watche

him with her heart in a turmoil of doub

and fear. The doubt was of her own

making, as the fear was of his. She ha

hought that this man was known to her, in

his potentialities for good or evil, in hi

stumblings upon the brink of the abyssand in his later plunge into the depths o

wrongdoing; but now that she was brough

face to face with him, her prefiguring

ook new shapes and she feared to loo



upon them. For the potentialities ha

suddenly become superhuman, and lov

tself stood aghast at the possibilities. I

he midst of it he stood before her again.

"What is it that you would have m

do?" he asked.

The tone of it assured her that he

battle was fought and won; but at th

moment of victory she had not the strengt

o make terms with him.

"You know what you ought to do," she

said, with eyes downcast.

"The 'oughts' are sometimes terriblhard, Miss Elliott. Haven't you found the

so?"

"Sometimes." She was finding one o



hem sufficiently hard at that moment t

compel the admission.

"But they are never impossible, yowould say, and that is true also. You

asked me a few moments ago if there wa

nothing that would move me, and I wa

empted. But that is past. Will you suffeme to go now?"

She stood aside, but her hand was stil

on the latch of the door.

"You have not promised," she said.

"Pardon me; I was hoping you woul

spare me. The cup is of my own mixingbut the lees are bitter. Must I drain them?"

"I—I don't understand," she rejoined.



"Don't you? Consider it a moment. You

have taken it for granted that I had it in m

heart to do this thing, and, knowing wha

you do of me, the inference is just. But have not admitted it, and I had hoped yo

would spare me the admission which

promise would imply. Won't you leave me

his poor shadow of refutation?"

She opened the door for him.

"Thank you; it is much more than deserve. Since you do not ask it, you shal

have the assurance,—the best I can give.

shall leave Denver in a day or two, an

you may take your own measures fosafeguarding Margaret in the interva

Perhaps it won't be as difficult as you ma

magine. If I have read her aright you ma

ask large things of her loyalty an



devotion to you."

The battle was over, and she had but to

hold her peace to be quit of him. Buhaving won her cause it was not in th

oving heart of her to let him g

unrecompensed.

"You are going away? Then we may

not meet again. I gave you bitter words

few minutes ago, Mr. Jeffard, but

believed they were true. Won't you denyhem—if you can?"

His foot was across the threshold, bu

he turned to smile down upon her.

"You are a true woman. You said I lied

o you, and now you ask me to deny it

knowing well enough that the denial wil



afterward stand for another falsehood.

know what you think of me,—what yo

are bound to think of me; but isn't i

conceivable that I would rather quenchat fire than add fuel to it?"

"But you are going away," she insisted

"And since we may never meet again

you crave the poor comfort of a denia

You shall have it for what it is worth

When you are inclined to think charitablof me, go back to first principles an

remember that the worst of men hav

sometimes had promptings which were no

altogether unworthy. Let the majoaccusation stand, if you choose; I did hav

an appointment here with Margare

Gannon. But when your faith in humankin

needs heartening, conceive that for thi



once the tryst was one which any woma

might have kept with me. Believe, if yo

care to, that my business here this evenin

was really with this poor fellow whossins have found him out. Would you like t

be able to believe that?"

For the first time since doubt and feahad gotten the better of indignation sh

was able to lift her eyes to his.

"I will believe it," she said gratefully.

He smiled again, and she was n

onger afraid. Now that she came to thin

of it, she wondered if she had ever bee

really afraid of him.

"Your faith is very beautiful, Mis

Elliott. I am glad to be able to give i



something better than a bare suggestion t

build on. Will you give this to Margare

when she comes?"

It was a folded paper, with a printed

itle and indorsement blanks on the back

She took it and glanced at the filing. It wa

he deed to a burial lot in the name oOwen David.

"Oh!" she said; and there was a worl

of contrition and self-reproach in thsingle word. "Can you ever forgive me

Mr. Jeffard?"

As once before, when Lansdale ha

proffered it, Jeffard pushed aside the cu

of reinstatement.

"Don't take too much for granted



Remember, the indictment still stands

Margaret Gannon's tempter might hav

done this and still merit your detestation."

And at the word she was once mor

alone with the still figure on the bed.



CHAPTER XXXII

For what reason Constance, left alon

n the house of the dead, went softly fro

he lighted room to kneel at the bedside o

he sleeping children in the lean-to beyon

—to kneel with her face in her hands an

her heart swelling with emotions too grea

for any outlet save that of sorrowfubeseechings,—let those adjudge who hav

passed in some crucial moment from los

o gain, and back to loss again. There wa

a pitiful heart cry in the prayer for helpbecause she knew now that love, might

and unreasoning, must be reckoned with i

every future thought of this man; lov

heedless of consequences, clinging first t



an imagined ideal, and now to th

sorrowful wreck of that ideal; love lashe

nto being, it may be, by the very whip o

shame, acknowledged only to be chaineand dungeoned in the Castle of Despair

but alive and pleading, and promising ye

o live and plead though hope were dead.

It was thus that Margaret found her a

hour later; and in the darkness of the littl

room the true-hearted Irish girl knel

beside her saint, with her strong armaround the weeping one, and a sob o

precious sympathy in the outpouring o

words.

"There now—there now, Mis

Constance! is it kneeling here and cryin

for these poor left ones that you are? Sur

t's the Holy Virgin herself that'll b



mothering them, and the likes of them. And

Owen'll be doing his part, too. It's

changed man he is."

Constance shook her head. She was to

sincere to let the lesser reason stand fo

he greater, even with Margaret.

"I do grieve for them, Margaret; but—

but it isn't that."

"It isn't that, do you say? Then I know

full well what it is, and it's the truth I'

going to tell you, Miss Constance, for al

he promisings he made me give him. 'Ti

Mr. Jeffard's money that's to go for th

funeral, and it was him left it with me t

give to Owen. He told me you'd not take i

from him, and 'twas his own free gif

Ever since he came back he's been givin



me money for the poor ones, and makin

me swear never to tell you; but it was fo

your sweet sake, Miss Connie, and not fo

mine. I'd want to die if you didn't believhat."

"Oh, Margaret! are you telling me th

ruth? I do so want to believe it!"

Margaret rose and drew her confesso

o the half-open door; to the bedside of th

sheeted one.

"A little while ago she was alive and

alking to you, Miss Constance, and yo

believed her because you knew she wa

going fast. If I'd be like that, I'd tell yo

he same."

"I believe you, Margaret—I do believ



you; and, oh, I'm so thankful! It woul

break my heart to have you go back now!"

"Don't you be worrying for me. Didn't say once that the devil might fly away wit

me, but I'd not live to leave him have th

good of it? When that time comes, Mis

Constance, it's another dead woman you'lbe crying over. And now you'll go home

and take your rest; the good old father i

waiting on the doorstep for you."

Even with his daughter, Stephen Elliot

was the most reticent of men; and on th

ittle journey up the river front and acros

he viaduct he plodded along in silencbeside her, waiting for her to speak if sh

had anything to say. Constance had a hear

full to overflowing, but not of the thing

which lend themselves to speech with an



father; and when she broke the silence i

was in self-defense, and on the side of th

commonplace.

"Have you decided yet where you wil

go?" she asked, knowing that th

arrangements for the prospecting trip wer

all but completed.

"N—no, not exactly. Except that

never have gone with the rush, and I don

mean to this time. There's some prettpromising country around up back o

Dick's mountain, and I've been thinking o

hat."

"I wish you would go into the Bonanz

district," she said. "If I'm to stay with Dic

and Myra, it will be a comfort to know

hat you are not very far away."



The old man plodded another squar

before he succeeded in casting his though

nto words.

"I was wondering if that wasn't th

reason why I want to go there. I'm no

etting on to anybody about it, but I'

getting sort of old and trembly, Connieand you're about all I have left."

She slipped her arm an inch or tw

farther through his. "Must it be, poppaCan't we get along without it? I'll be gla

o live like the poorest of them, if we ca

only be together."

"I know; you're a good daughter to me

Connie, and you'd go into the hospital o

Dr. Gordon's offer to-morrow, if I'd say

he word. But I think the last strike I mad



rather spoiled me. I got sort of used to th

flesh-pots, and I haven't got over feelin

for my check-book yet. I guess I'll have t

ry it once more before we go on thcounty."

She would have said more had ther

been more to say. But her arguments hadall been exhausted when the prospectin

fever had set in, and she could only sen

him forth with words of heartening and

brave God-speed.

"I'm not going to put things in the way,

she said; "but I'd go with you and help dig

f you'd let me. The next best thing will bo have you somewhere within reach, an

shall be comforted if you can manage t

keep Topeka Mountain in sight. But you

won't."



"Yes, I will, daughter; the string pull

about as hard at my end as it does a

yours, and I'll tell you what I'll do. Th

gulches that I had in mind are all up at thhead of Myriad Creek, and I'll ship th

stake' to Dick, and make the Myriad a sor

of outfitting camp. How will that strik

you?"

"That will be fine," she said; adding, i

an upflash of the old gayety: "and whe

you've located your claim, Myra and will come and turn the windlass for you."

They were climbing the stairs to th

darkened suite on the third floor, and ahe door Constance found a telegrap

messenger trying to pin a non-deliver

notice to the panel. She signed his blan

by the hall light, and read the messag



while her father was unlocking the doo

and lighting the lamp.

"It is from Myra," she explained; "ant's good news and bad. Do you remembe

what Dick was telling us the other evenin

about his drunken blacksmith?"

"The fellow that went into the blast

choke after the dead man?"

"Yes. He is down with mountain fever

and Myra says nothing but good nursin

will save him. Dick has got his story ou

of him at last; he is Margaret Gannon'

father."

"Humph! what a little world this is!

suppose you will send Margaret righ

away?"



"I shall go with her to-morrow

morning. I'll tell Dick what you are goin

o do, and you can come when you ar

ready."

The old man nodded acquiescence

"It'll be better for you to go along; she'l

be all broke up. Want me to go and wireDick?"

"If you will. I should have asked th

boy to wait, but he was gone before I haopened the envelope. Tell Dick to keep

him alive at any cost, and that we'll b

here to-morrow evening."

When her father was gone, Constanc

sat down to piece out the discoveries

comforting and harrowing, of the foregon

hour, and to set them over against eac



other in a field which was as yet too nea

o be retrospective. She tried to stan

aside for herself, and to see and conside

only those to whom her heart went out ioving compassion and sympathy; but i

was inevitable that she should finall

come to a re-reading of the letter take

from its hiding-place in the photograpframe. She dwelt upon it with a soft flus

spreading slowly from neck to cheek

reading it twice and yet once again befor

she laid it in the little wall-pocket of

grate and touched a match to it.

"For his sake and for mine," she sai

softly, as she watched it shrivel andblacken in the flame. "That is what I mus

do—burn my ships so that I can't go back.

The charred wraith of the letter wen



up the chimney in the expiring gasp of th

flame, and there was the sound of

familiar step in the corridor. She wen

quickly to open the door for the latvisitor. It was Lansdale, come to say wha

must be said on the eve of parting, and t

ask for his answer to a conditional ple

made in a moment when the consumptive'optimism had carried him off his feet.



CHAPTER XXXIII

The periods of the scene-shifter, in lif

as in life's mimicking on any stage, hav

fallen into disesteem. In any flight of fanc

or plodding journey of fact these are fla

countries to be traversed; interregnum

which, however replete with incident fo

he actors themselves, are deemed alikunworthy of the playwright's outworkin

or the chronicler's recording. To the

audience waiting beyond the footlight

hese are mere breathing spaces of musichastened minutes standing for whateve

apses of days, weeks or months the stor

of the play involves; but for the scene

shifter they are gaps toil-filled, with fierc



strivings and wrestlings and dought

compellings of the animate and inanimat

perversities.

None the less, for the toiler behind th

scenes there are compensations, for th

audience, the entr'acte is a solution o

continuity, more or less skillfully bridgedaccording to the playwright's gift; but th

worker of transformations knows no brea

n the action. For him the story of the pla

s complete, marching evenly to its climahrough spoken line and drop-curtaine

nterregnum.

The curtain has rung down upon anterior in an apartment house. It is to ris

upon a flashlight picture of a summer nigh

scene in a mountain-girt valley. The wall

of the homelike interior vanish, and i



heir stead dim reaches of the forest-cla

mountains suggest themselves. A stream

umbles over the boulders in its bed with

hollow roar hinting at canyoned plungingabove; and on the margin of it a quakin

aspen blinks its many-lidded eyes in th

ight of a camp fire.

Against the pillared background o

forest, primeval firs whose sombre green

become murky black in the firelight,

campers' wagon is drawn up; and thpicket pins of the grazing horses ar

driven in a grass grown extension of th

glade to the right. There is a silke

whisper abroad in the night, rising anfalling upon the sound waves of th

umbling stream: the voices of the trees a

hey call to each other in the night win



pouring softly down from the sky-pitche

peaks.

The scene is set and the actors are iheir places. They are two men clad i

flannel shirts and brown duck overalls an

shooting-coats. One of them is bearde

and bronzed, with the well-knit figure oconscious strength. The other is of slighte

frame, and on his clean-shaven face th

prolonged holiday in the open is but now

beginning to impress the stamp oreturning health and vigor. The bearded

man is on his back beside the fire, with hi

clasped hands for a pillow and an extinc

pipe between his teeth. The clean-shaveone is propped against the bole of a tree

his eyes are closed, and his pipe ha

slipped from his fingers.



A brand falls into the glowing mass o

embers, and the sparks fly upward in

crackling shower. It is the prompter's call

bell. The man reclining at the tree-fooopens his eyes, and the bearded one sit

up and feels mechanically for the tobacc

pouch.

"Here it is," says Lansdale. "I was jus

about to fill up again when the realitie

slipped away. It's astonishing how one ca

sleep overtime in these upper levels."

The athletic one rises and stretches til

his joints crack. "Been asleep, have you

So have I. There's no opiate in the worlike a day's tramping in the altitudes

Freshen you up any?"

"As to body, yes. But I've had a curiou



dream—if it were a dream." Silenc

while the sob of the river rises and fall

on the night wind, and then a half-hesitan

query. "Jeffard, do you believe ipresentiments?"

The bearded one is on his knees befor

he fire, pressing a live coal into the bowof his pipe, and the answer is delayed.

"I don't know whether I do or not;

have never had one."

"But you have known of others havin

hem, haven't you?"

"Of one other: but in that instance iwas foreknowledge rather than

foreboding. The presentiment should hav

been mine; and I had none."



"Would you mind telling me about it?"

"No. It was while I was making th

survey for a logging railway in Quebec. expected to be out all summer, but in th

middle of it the company called a halt an

went home. I hadn't wired or written, bu

when I reached Hinsdale my father was ahe station to meet me. For three days m

mother had been insisting that I woul

come, and to quiet her they had bee

meeting the trains. She died the nexevening."

"And you had no premonition?"

"None whatever. For a month or more

had been beyond the reach of the mails

and I had left her in her usual health. I

was a bolt out of a clear sky."



Again the brawling stream and th

whispering leaves fill the gap of silence

and as before, Lansdale is the first t

speak.

"I have always scouted such things, a

sanity seems to demand. Stories with an

element of the supernatural in them havnever appealed to me because, howeve

well authenticated, they were alway

stories, and never actual happenings i

which I had any part. But for the last daor two I've had a growing sense o

mpending calamity, and I can't shake i

off."

There is the brusquerie of heartening i

Jeffard's rejoinder.

"Nonsense! It's only the imaginativ



part of you kicking against the pricks of

ongish holiday."

"That is ingenious, but I can't quitaccept it. I've eaten and slept with th

maginative fiend long enough to be prett

well acquainted with his vagaries. This i

altogether different. It is precisely thfeeling you have had just before a storm;

sense of depression as intangible a

darkness, but quite as real. It was with m

a few minutes ago when I fell asleep, anhe dream seemed to be a part of it."

"Oh, dreams," says the scoffer; "

hought they had been accounted for by thdietists. I told you that last batch o

panbread held possibilities. But go on an

unload your dream. I'm shudder-proof."



Lansdale tells it circumstantially

keeping his pipe alight in the periods.

"It didn't seem like a dream; at leastnot in the beginning of it. I was sitting her

ust as I am now, and you were on you

back over there, with the pipe in you

mouth. The surroundings were the sameexcept that the fire was burning low.

remember thinking that you must hav

fallen asleep, and wondering why the pip

didn't fall and wake you. After a time throar of the stream seemed to quiet down

and I heard the clink of horseshoes upo

stone. The sound came from across th

stream, and as I looked I saw a trail and horseman coming down it. It was all s

real that I wondered why I hadn't notice

he trail before. The man rode down to th



water's edge and made as if he woul

cross. I saw him quite distinctly, and

hought it curious, because the fire was to

ow to give much light. He merely glanceat the stream, and then turned his horse'

head and rode down the opposite bank. H

passed out of sight among the trees, and

moment later I heard the horse's hoofagain, this time as if he were on a bridg

of poles."

Jeffard has been listening witattention no more than decently alert, bu

at this point he breaks in to say: "You've

been walking in your sleep. Go on."

"It was just here that the supernatura

came in. I told you that the man had passe

out of sight, but all at once I seemed to se

him again. He was on a corduroy bridg



crossing the stream, and I saw plainl

what he did not,—that the bridge wa

unsafe, and that a step or two woul

plunge him into the torrent. I donremember what followed, save that I trie

o call out, first to him and then to you; bu

my voice seemed to be swallowed up i

he thunder of the water. There was a littlgap filled with fierce strugglings, and the

seemed to be here again, lying by th

wagon with a blanket over me; and yo

were walking up and down with anothe

man,—a stranger. That is all; except that

ried to tell you that you were wet throug

and would take cold,—tried and couldn'tand awoke."

Jeffard has risen to put another log o

he fire.



"It's the panbread," he says, with th

air of one who sweeps the board for

resetting of the pieces. But after a little h

adds: "I was wondering how you came tknow about the bridge. That is the onl

unaccountable twist in it."

"Is there a bridge?"

"Yes; it's just below that farther clump

of aspens. But there is nothing the matte

with it that I could see. I noticed it while was picketing the horses."

"And is there a trail on the other sid

of the stream?"

"There is. There used to be a ford jus

here, but it was dangerous, and we buil

he bridge."



"Then you have been here before?"

"Yes, many times. I spent the bette

half of a summer and all of one winter ihis valley. The Midas is just below here

meant to surprise you to-morrow

morning."

Lansdale's gaze is in the heart of th

fire and his voice is low. "Do you know

Henry, I'm rather glad you didn't wait

Don't ask me why, because I can't tell youn terms divisible by the realities. Bu

somehow the to-morrows don't seem to b

assured."

"Oh, pshaw! that's your dream—an

he panbread its father. If you had talked

hat way a month ago, when you wer

really living from hand to mouth"—



Lansdale spreads his hands palm

down and looks at them.

"You promised me a new lease of lifeHenry, and you've given it me,—or the ke

o it. I didn't believe it could be done, an

my chief trouble in those first days wa

he thought that you'd have to bury malone. And when we camped in

particularly rocky spot, I used to wonde

how you would manage it."

Jeffard's smile is of grimness. "If yo

had mentioned it, I could have helped yo

off with that burden. These mountains ar

full of graves, ready-made; prospecholes, where the better part of many a ma

ies buried. Do you see that heap of eart

and stone over yonder?"



Lansdale shades his eyes from th

firelight and looks and sees.

"That is one of them. Just behind thaheap there is a shaft with a windlas

across it, and for six weeks two me

worked early and late digging a hole,—

which turned out to be an excellent welwhen the water came in and stoppe

hem."

"And the water was bitter," sayLansdale. "Did you drink of it, Henry?"

"No; but the other man did, and he wen

mad."

Once more the stream and the sighin

night wind share the silence. For man

days Lansdale has been assuring himsel



hat the golden moment for speech of th

helpful sort must ultimately be made an

not waited for. In the hour when he had

consented to Bartrow's urgings he habeen given to see his opportunity and ha

determined to grasp it,—had made th

determination the excuse for sharin

Jeffard's hospitality. He can look bacupon that resolve now and see that it wa

perfunctory; that the prompting had bee

of duty and not at all of love for the man

But the weeks of close companionship

have wrought more miracles than one, an

not the least among them is a grea

amazement builded upon the daily renewaof Jeffard's loving-kindnesses. For th

man with the world-quarrel has been

brother indeed; nurse, physician, kinsman

and succoring friend; with the world



quarrel put aside from the moment o

outsetting, and with apparently no objec

n life less worthy than that of fighting

vicarious battle for a sick man. Thsummary of it is humanizing, and the las

upholdings of the crust of reserve brea

down in the warmth of it.

"May I speak as the spirit moves

Henry?"

"If you think I deserve it. Why shouldnyou?"

"It is a question of obligations rathe

han of deservings,—my obligations. N

brother of my own blood could have don

more for me than you have."

"And you want to even it up?"



"No; but I want to tell you while I ma

hat it has come very near to me in thes

ast few days. At first I was inclined to

make another query of it, and to speculatas to your probable motive; but latterl

've come to call it by its right name."

Jeffard shakes his head slowly, andremoves his pipe to say: "Don't make an

more mistakes, Lansdale. I'm neithe

better nor worse than I was that nigh

when I told you the story of the man anhis temptation. I know what you mean an

what you would say; but this experimen

and its results—the twenty odd pounds o

flesh you have put on, and the new leasof life they stand for—mean more to m

han they do to you."

"I don't begin to understand the drift o



hat," says Lansdale.

"No? I wonder if you woul

understand and believe if I should tell yohe truth; if I should confess that m

motive, so far as you are concerned, i

entirely selfish?"

"Since understanding implies belief,

shall have to say no to that. But you migh

ry,—for your own satisfaction."

"It's altogether unprofitable; bu

perhaps it's your due. I'll have to go bac

a little to make it clear. In the old days w

were pretty good friends, but I think yo

will admit that there have always bee

reservations. You haven't known me and

haven't known you as friends of the Davi

and Jonathan sort know each other. Isn



hat so?"

Lansdale is constrained to say "Yes,

wishing it were otherwise.Jeffard refills his pipe and fishes fo

another live coal in the fire-fringe. The g

r-r-rh of the grazing horses comes fro

he near-by glade, and again the silenc

begins to grow. Suddenly he says: "Let'

drop it, Lansdale, and talk abou

something else."

"No, go on; nothing you can say wil

efface the brotherly fact."

"Very well,—if you will have it. Yousaid you were inclined to question m

motive. It was more than questionable; i

was frankly selfish."



"Selfish? You'll have to spell it ou

arge for me. From my point of view i

seems rather the other way about. Wha

had you to gain by saddling yourself withe care of a sick man?"

"I can't put it in words—not withou

aying myself open to the charge oplaying to the gallery. But let me state

fact and ask a question. A year ago you

hought it was all up with you, and yo

didn't seem to care much. A few monthater I found you fighting for your life lik

a shipwrecked sailor with land in sight

What did it?"

That the lava-crust of reserve i

altogether molten is evinced in Lansdale'

straightforward reply.



"Love,—love for a woman. I think yo

must have known that."

"I did. That was why you were makinhe desperate fight for life; and that is wh

we are here to-night, you and I. I love th

woman, too."

Lansdale shakes his head slowly, and

an ineffable smile is Jeffard's reward.

"And yet you call it selfishness, Henry

Man, man! you have deliberately gon

about to save my life when another migh

have taken it!"

"I shall reap where I have sown," sayJeffard steadily. "Latterly I have bee

iving for one day,—the day when I ca

ake you back to her in the good hope tha



she will forget what has been for the sak

of what I have tried to make possible."

Once more Lansdale's gaze is in thglowing heart of the fire, and the light i

his eyes is prophetic.

"Verily, you shall reap, Henry; but no

n a field where you have sown. Don't as

me how I know. That's my secret. But ou

of all this will come a thing not to b

measured by your prefigurings. You shalhave your reward; but I crave mine, too

Will you give it me?"

"If it be mine to give."

"It is. Do justice and love mercy

Henry. That is the thing I've been trying to

find words to say to you all these weeks."



Jeffard lays the pipe aside and does no

pretend to misunderstand.

"Tell me what you would like to haveme do."

"I think you must know: find the ma

who drank of the bitter waters and wen

mad, and give him back that which yo

have taken from him."

"Isn't there a possibility that I can d

neither?"

"I can help you to do the first,—and fo

he other I can only plead. I know wha

you would say: that the man had forfeitehis right; that he tried to kill you; that b

all the laws of man's inventing this mone

s yours. But God's right and your debt t



your own manhood are above all these. A

your poor debtor, I'm privileged to as

arge things of you; can't you break th

eeth of it and shake yourself free of thmoney-dragon?"

Jeffard is afoot, tramping a monotonou

sentry beat between the wagon and thfire. His rejoinder is a question.

"Do you know where James Garvin i

o be found?"

"I don't, but Bartrow does."

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"Because Dick is merciful. The man i

a criminal, and you could send him to th

penitentiary."



"And Dick thought—and you hav

hought—that I would prosecute him. I

was the natural inference, I suppose,—

from your point of view. The man whowould rob his partner wouldn't stumbl

over a little thing like that. Will it help

you to sleep the sounder if I say tha

vengeance isn't in me?—wasn't in me even the white heat of it?"

Lansdale nods assent. "I'm on th

asking hand, and any concession igrateful. If you were vindictive about it

'm afraid the major contention would b

hopeless."

"But as it is you do not despair?"

"I am very far from despairing, Henry

You spoke lightly of our friendship a little



while ago, and one time I should hav

agreed with you. But I know you bette

now, and the incredibility of this thing tha

you have done has been growing upon met's the one misshapen column in a fai

emple. Won't you pull it down and set up

another in its place,—a clean-cut pillar o

uprightness, which will harmonize withe others?"

Jeffard stops short at the tree-bole

with his hand on Lansdale's shoulder.

"It has taken me five weeks to find ou

why you consented to come afield wit

me," he says. "It was to say this, wasnt?"

"Just that," says Lansdale, and hi

voice is the voice of one pleading as



mother pleads. "Say you will do it, Henry

f not for your own sake or mine, for th

sake of that which has brought us togethe

here."

Jeffard has turned away again, but h

comes back at that to stand befor

Garvin's advocate.

"It is a small thing you have asked

Lansdale," he says, after a time; "muc

smaller than you think. The pillar isnaltogether as crooked as it looks; there i

something in the perspective. You know

how the old Greek builders used to set th

corner column out of the perpendicular tmake it appear plumb. We don't always d

hat; sometimes we can't do it withou

bringing the whole structure down abou

our ears. But in this case your critical ey



shall be satisfied. We'll go down to the

mine in the morning and use Denby's wire

f Bartrow can find Garvin, you shall se

how easily the dragon's teeth may bbroken. Is that what you wanted me t

say?"

Lansdale's answer is a quotation.

"'And it came to pass, when he ha

made an end of speaking ... that the soul o

Jonathan was knit with the soul of Davidand Jonathan loved him as his own soul

've seen my reward and felt of it; an

yours will come a little later,—in a wa

you little dream of. Pass the tobacco, anet's have another whiff or two before w

urn in. I'm too acutely thankful to b

sleepy."



For a peaceful half-hour they sit befor

he glowing embers, smoking placidl

while their talk drifts hither and yon ove

he spent sea of boyhood and youth. It is heartening half-hour, and at the end of i

Jeffard rises to get the blankets from th

wagon. Lansdale elects to sleep at hi

ree-root, and he is rolling himself in hiblanket when Jeffard says:

"How about the presentiment? Hav

we tired it out?"

Lansdale laughs softly. "It's gone," h

says. "Perhaps it was nothing more than a

upheaval of conscience. I'm subject to thawhen I've anything on my mind. Good

night, and God bless you, Henry."

And so the curtain goes down upon th



summer night scene in the mountain-gir

valley, with the two men sleepin

peacefully before the fire, and the star

shining softly in the patch of velvety skoverhead. The midnight ebb of the snow

fed stream has set in, and the throbbin

roll of the water drum is muffled. The fir

burns low. The whispering leaves arstilled, and the wind slipping down fro

he snow coifs, sinks to a sigh. Th

pinions of the night are folded, an

darkness and murmurous silence wrap th

mantle of invisibility around the camp i

he glade.



CHAPTER XXXIV

It is the gray dawn that lifts the curtain

and in the little glade where the two me

slept there are three figures, dim an

ghostly in the morning's twilight. Two o

hem are afoot, heavy-eyed and weary

ramping a slow-paced beat on the margi

of the tumbling stream. The third is a stilshape lying blanket-covered beside th

wagon.

"Tell me about it, Denby," says one o

he watchers, and his voice breaks in th

saying of it. "I think I can bear it now

How did it happen?"



The master of men shakes his head. "

can't tell you anything more than the bal

fact, Jeffard. I rode down the trail ahea

of Higgins, and should have forded thcreek here, only I didn't want to distur

you two. I went on to the bridge, and in th

act of crossing he ran down the bank o

his side, calling to me to go back. It waoo late. I had barely time to get free of th

stirrups when we were into it,—the two o

us and the horse. It isn't more than three o

four feet deep, as you know, but I knew i

meant death if we went into the mill tai

below. I lost my grip and was gone whe

he grappled me. I don't know yet how hcame to save my life and lose his own."

"It was to be," says Jeffard, brokenly

"When I reached you he was holding yo



up with one hand and clinging to th

bridge stringer with the other. His weigh

and yours with the rush of the water ha

pushed the timber down, and his head waunder."

Two other turns they make, and then

Jeffard says, with awe in his voice, "Hknew about it beforehand, Denby," and h

ells Lansdale's dream.

Denby hears him through withounterrupting, but at the end of it he says

gently: "It wasn't a dream. Higgins wa

overdue with the team from Aspen, and

went out to see what had become of him. passed here on my way up the trail abou

nine o'clock, and you were both asleep

hen. I had crossed by the lower ford an

found it pretty bad, so I turned back fro



here and rode down to see if the bridg

was all right. He saw me and heard me."

Jeffard's gesture is of unconvincement."That accounts for part of it," he says

"but I shall always believe he foresaw hi

death and the manner of it."

After that they pace up and down i

silence again, treading out the sorrowfu

watch until daylight is fully come

bringing with it a team from the mine an

men to do what remains to be done. Th

wo stand apart until the men have don

heir office, falling in to walk softl

behind the wagon on the short journe

down the valley to the mine settlement. O

he way, Jeffard accounts for himsel

briefly.



"He was one of the two best friends

had in the world," he says. "I had him ou

on a camping holiday for his health, an

he was gaining day by day. We werecounting upon dropping in on you thi

morning, and now"—

"I know," says the master. "He gave hiife for mine, and it gets pretty near to me

oo." And thereafter they keep step wit

heads bowed and eyes downcast, as thos

n whom sorrow has murdered speechand the bellowing stream at the trail-sid

hunders a requiem for its victim.

The setting sun is crimsoning theastern snow caps while they are buryin

him on the plateau above the min

settlement. An hour later, the master o

men and the master of the mine are me



ogether in the log cabin opposite the grea

gray dump; in the cabin builded b

Garvin, but which now serves as th

office of the superintendent of the MidasSorrow still sits between, and Denb

would give place to it.

"Put it off till to-morrow, Jeffard," hsays. "Neither of us is fit to talk busines

o-night."

"No, it mustn't be put off. I gave himy promise, and I mean to make it goo

while time serves. Have you any one her

who is competent to witness a lega

document?"

"Yes; Halsey is a notary public."

"Good. Sit down at that desk and draw



up a writing transferring my interest in th

Midas to Stephen Elliott and Richar

Bartrow, trustees."

"What's that? Trustees for whom?"

"For James Garvin."

The master of men leans back in hichair, his eyes narrowing and the littl

frown of perplexity radiating fan-lik

above them.

"Jeffard, do you mean to say that yo

are going to step aside in favor of the ma

who tried to kill you?"

"You may put it that way, if you

choose. It would have been done long ag

f I had been able to find the man."



"And you stepped into the breach

year ago and secured his property for hi

because he had put himself out of th

running and couldn't? You've touched meon the raw, Jeffard. It's my business to

size people up, and you have fairl

outflanked me. A blind man might have

seen the drift of it, but I didn't; I thoughyou had robbed him. Why didn't you giv

t a name?"

"I had no thought of concealment untiyou warned me. Garvin was a criminal i

he eye of the law, and the least I could do

for him was to turn the tide of publi

opinion in his favor."

"Well, you did it; but just the same, you

might have passed the word to me. I

wouldn't have gone any farther, and



should have felt a good bit easier in m

mind."

"Perhaps; but you will pardon me if say that I wasn't considering you in th

matter. I knew better than to defeat m

own end. If I had told you the truth at th

ime, you would not have believed it; yowould have struck hands with your ow

heory that Garvin had attempted to rob

me, and you would have talked and acte

accordingly."

"What makes you say I wouldn't hav

believed the truth?"

"It would have been merely

declaration of intention at the time, an

you would have said that it didn't squar

with human nature as you know i



Bartrow knew, and he went over to th

majority. But that is neither here nor there

Will you draw up the writing?"

Denby goes to the desk and writes ou

he transfer, following Jeffard's dictation

When it is signed and acknowledged

Jeffard slips his final anchor.

"I presume you will want to make

new operating contract with the trustees

or with Garvin, and in that case you wilwant to cancel the old one. I haven't m

copy of it with me, but I'll mail it to yo

when I get back to Denver."

Denby is making a pretense o

rummaging in the pigeonholes of the des

o cover a small struggle which ha

nothing to do with the superintendent'



files. When the struggle is fought to

finish, he turns suddenly and holds out hi

hand.

"Jeffard, that night when we wrangle

t out up yonder on the old dump I sai

some things that I shouldn't have said i

you had seen fit to be a little franker witme. Will you forget them?"

Jeffard takes the proffered hand an

wrings it gratefully. "Thank you for thatDenby," he says; "it's timely. I feel as if I'

ike to drop out and turn up on some othe

planet. This thing has cost me pretty dear

one way with another."

"It'll come out all right in the end,

asserts the master; and then: "But yo

mustn't forget that the cost of it is partly o



your own incurring. It's a rare failing, bu

here is such a thing as being too close

mouthed. You've made out your case, afte

a fashion, and I'm not going to appeal itbut your postulate was wrong. Huma

nature is not as incredulous of goo

ntentions as the cynics would make it ou

o be. You might have told a few of uwithout imperilling Garvin."

"I meant to do it; as I say, I did tel

Bartrow that morning when I raced Garviacross the range and into Aspen. But h

and every one else drew the othe

conclusion, and I was too stubborn t

plead my own cause. The stubbornnesbecame a mania with me after a time, an

had a fit of it no longer ago than las

night. I let Lansdale die believing that h



had argued me into promising to mak

restitution. We were coming down here

o-day to set the thing in train, and, o

course, he would have learned the wholruth; but for one night—"

"For one night you would let him hav

he comfort of believing that he habrought it about," says Denby, quickly

"That wasn't what you were going to say

but it's the truth, and you know it. I know

he feel of it; you've reached the poinwhere you can get some sort of comfor

out of holding your finger in the fire

Suppose you begin right here and now t

ake a little saner view of things. What aryour plans?"

"I haven't any."



"Are you open to an offer?"

"From you?—yes."

"Good. I'm unlucky enough to havsome mining property in Mexico, and I'v

got to go down there and set it in order, o

send some one to do it for me. Will you

go?"

Jeffard's reply is promptly acquiescent

"Gladly; if you think I am competent."

"I don't think,—I know. Can you start a

short notice?"

"The sooner the better. I said I should

ike to drop out and turn up on some othe

planet: that will be the next thing to it."



From that the talk goes overland to th

affairs of a century-old silver mine in th

Chihuahuan mountains, and at the end of i

Jeffard knows what is to be done and howhe is to go about the doing of it. Denb

yawns and looks at his watch.

"It's bedtime," he says. "Shall wconsider it settled and go over to the bunk

shack?"

"I have a letter to write," says Jeffard"Don't wait for me."

"All right. You'll find what you need in

he desk,—top drawer on the right. Com

over when you get ready," and th

promoter leaves his late owner i

possession of the superintendent's office.



Judging from the number of false start

and torn sheets, the writing of the lette

proves to be no easy matter; but it i

begun, continued, and ended at length, anJeffard sits back to read it over.

"My dear Bartrow:

"When this reaches you, you will

have had my telegram of to-day

telling you all there is to tell about

Lansdale's death. You must forgiveme if I don't repeat myself here. It is

too new a wound—and too deep—to

bear probing, even with a pen.

"What I have to say in this letter

will probably surprise you. Last

night, in our last talk together,

Lansdale told me that you know



Garvin's whereabouts. Acting upon

that information, I have to-night

executed a transfer of the Midas to

yourself and Stephen Elliott, trusteesfor Garvin. By agreement with

Denby, I cancel my working contract

with him, and you, or Garvin, can

make another for the unexpired portion of the year on the same terms,

—which is Denby's due. You will

find the accrued earnings of the mine

from the day of my first settlement

with Denby deposited in the Denver

bank in an account which I opened

some months ago in the names of yourself and Elliott, trustees. Out of

the earnings I have withheld my

wages as a workman in the mine last

winter, and a moderate charge for



caretaking since.

"That is all I have to say, I think,

unless I add that you are partlyresponsible for the delay in Garvin's

reinstatement. If you had trusted me

sufficiently to tell me what you told

Lansdale, it would have saved timeand money, inasmuch as I have

spared neither in the effort to trace

Garvin. I told you the truth that

morning in Leadville, but it seemsthat your loyalty wasn't quite equal to

the strain put upon it by public rumor.

I don't blame you greatly. I know I

had done what a man may to forfeitthe respect of his friends. But I made

the mistake of taking it for granted

that you and Lansdale, and possibly



one other, would still give me credit

for common honesty, and when I

found that you didn't it made me

bitter, and I'll be frank enough to saythat I haven't gotten over it yet."

The letter pauses with the little outflas

of resentment, and he takes the pen to sigt. But in the act he adds anothe

paragraph.

"That is putting it rather harshly,and just now I'm not in the mood to

quarrel with any one; and least of all

with you. I am going away to be gone

indefinitely, and I don't want to give

you a buffet by way of leave-taking.

But the fact remains. If you can admit

it and still believe that the old-time



friendship is yet alive in me, I wish

you would. And if you dare take

word from me to Miss Elliott, I'd be

glad if you would say to her that mysorrow for what has happened is

second only to hers."

The letter is signed, sealed, anaddressed, and he drops it into the mail

box. The lamp is flaring in the night win

sifting in through the loosened chinking

and he extinguishes it and goes out tramp himself weary in the little cleare

space which had once been Garvin'

dooryard. It is a year and a day since h

wore out the midwatch of that othe

summer night on the eve of the forthfarin

from the valley of dry bones, and h

recalls it and the impassioned outburs



which went to the ending of it. Again h

urns his face toward the far-away city o

he plain, but this time his eyes are di

when the reiterant thought slips intspeech. "God help me!" he says. "How

can I ever go to her and tell her that I hav

failed!"



CHAPTER XXXV

The news of Lansdale's death cam

with the shock of the unexpected to th

dwellers in the metamorphosed cabin o

he upslope of Topeka Mountain, albeit no

one of the three of them had ventured t

hope for anything more than a reprieve a

he outcome of the jaunt afield. But thmanner of his death at the time when th

reprieve seemed well assured wa

responsible for the shock and it

sorrowful aftermath; and if Constancgrieved more than Bartrow or her cousin

t was only for the reason that the heart o

compassion knows best the bitterness o

nfruition.



"It's a miserably comfortless saying t

offer you, Connie, dear, but we must try to

believe it is for the best," said Myra

finding Constance re-reading Jeffard'elegram by the light of her bedroom lamp

Constance put her arms about he

cousin's neck, and the heart of compassiooverflowed. "'For unto every one that hat

shall be given, but from him that hath no

shall be taken away even that which h

hath,'" she sobbed. "Of all the things hhad set his heart upon life was the least,—

was only the means to an end: and eve

hat was taken from him."

"No, not taken, Connie; he gave it, an

gave it freely. He did for another what hi

friend was trying to do for him."



At the reference to Jeffard, Constanc

went to stand before the crackling fire o

fir-splinters on the hearth. After a time sh

said: "Do you suppose Mr. Jeffard wilcome here to tell us about it?"

Myra's answer was a query.

"Does he know you are here?"

"No, I think not."

"Then he will be more likely to go tDenver."

Connie's gaze was in the fire, and sh

swerved aside from the straight path onference.

"He will write to Dick," she said. "

should like to read the letter when i



comes, if I may."

Myra promised, and so it rested; bu

when Jeffard's letter came, and Bartrowhad shared its astounding news with hi

wife, Myra was for rescinding he

promise.

"I don't know why she shouldn't rea

t," said Dick. "She has always been mor

or less interested in him, and it will do he

a whole lot of good to know that we werall off wrong. Jeffard's little slap at m

hits her, too, but she won't mind that."

"No," said Myra; "I was thinking o

something else,—something quit

different."

"Is it sayable?"



They were sitting on the steps of th

extended porch. The night-shift was a

work in the Myriad below, and the rattl

and clank of a dump-car coming oupostponed her answer. When the clango

subsided she glanced over her shoulder.

"She can't hear," said Bartrow. "She'n the sitting-room reading to Uncl

Steve."

"I'm not sure that it is sayable, DickBut for the last two days I've bee

wondering if we weren't mistaken abou

something else, too,—about Connie'

feeling for Mr. Lansdale. She is sorry, bunot quite in the way I expected she woul

be."

"What has that got to do with Jeffard'



etter?" demanded the downright one. Hi

ransplantings of perspicacity were not ye

sufficiently acclimated to bloom out o

season.

"Nothing, perhaps." She gave it up a

unspeakable, and went to the details of th

business affair. "Shall you tell Garvin aonce?"

"Sure."

"How fortunate it is that he and Uncl

Stephen came in to-day."

"Yes. They were staked for anothe

month, and I didn't look for them until thewere driven in for more grub. But Garvi

says the old man is about played out. He'

oo old. He can't stand the pick and shove



n this altitude at his age. We'll have to

alk him out of it and run him back t

Denver some way or other."

"Can't you make this trusteeship a

excuse? If Garvin needed a guardian a

first, he will doubtless need one now."

Bartrow nodded thoughtfully. Anothe

car was coming out, and he waited unti

he crash of the falling ore had come an

gone.

"Jeffard knew what he was about al

he time; knew it when he wrote this lette

ust as well as he did when he shouldere

he curse of it to keep a possible lynchin

party from hanging Garvin. That's why h

put it in trust. He knew Garvin had gon

daft and thrown it away once, and he wa



afraid he might do it again."

"Will he?" asked the wife.

"I guess not. I believe he has learnehis lesson. More than that, Jim's as soft a

mush on the side next the old man. If I ca

make out to tie Uncle Steve's welfare up

n the deal, Garvin will come to the fron

ike a man."

"Where is Garvin now?"

"He is down at the bunk-house."

Myra rose. "I suppose you want to ge

t over with. Let me have the letter, if youwon't need it."

"What are you going to do?"



"Carry Connie off to her room an

keep her busy with this while you an

Uncle Stephen fight it out with the new

millionaire," she said. "I don't envy yoyour part of it."

Bartrow laughed, and th

ransplantings put forth a late shoot.

"Come to think of it, I don't know as

envy you yours," he retorted. "She's al

broke up about Uncle Steve's health anLansdale's death now, and she'll have a fi

when she finds out how she has bee

piling it on to Jeffard when he didn

deserve it."

It was an hour later, and the day-me

smoking on the porch of the boarding

house had gone to bed, when the husban



and wife met again midway of the pat

eading up from the shaft-house of th

Myriad to the metamorphosed cabin

Bartrow had walked down to thboarding-house with Garvin, and Myra'

mpatience had sent her down the path t

meet him. Dick gave her his arm up th

steep ascent, and drew her to a seat on thowest of the porch steps.

"Where is Connie?" he inquired

anticipating an avalanche of questions, ouof which he would have to dig his wa

without fear of interruption.

"She is with her father. Begin at thbeginning, and tell me all about it. Wha

did Garvin say? Is he going to b

sensible?"



"There isn't so much to tell as ther

might be," Dick said, smothering a might

prompting to tell the major fact firs

"Garvin took it very sensibly, though body could see that the lamplight was

good bit too strong for his eyes. He had t

ry three or four times before he coul

speak, and then all he could say waThirds, Steve, thirds.'"

"'Thirds?' What did he mean by that?"

Bartrow hesitated for a moment, as

gunner who would make sure of th

priming before he jerks the lanyard.

"Did it ever occur to you that any on

else besides Garvin and Jeffard might b

nterested in the Midas?"



"Why, no!"

"It didn't to me. I don't know why, but

never thought of it, though I knew welenough that Jim never in all his life wen

prospecting on a grub-stake of his ow

providing. He didn't that summer thre

years ago when he drove the tunnel on thMidas."

Myra's lips were dry, and she had to

moisten them to say, "Who was it, Dick?"

"Who should it be but our good ol

Uncle Steve? Of course, he'd forgotten al

about it, and there he stood, wringin

Garvin's hand and trying to congratulat

him; and Jim hanging on to the back of hi

chair and saying, 'Thirds, Steve, I sa

hirds.' Garvin made him understand a



ast, and then the old man melted dow

nto his chair and put his face in his hands

When he took it out again it was to look u

and say, 'You're right, Jim; of course it'shirds,' and then he asked me wher

Jeffard was."

Myra's voice was unsteady, but shmade shift to say what there was to b

said; and Bartrow went on.

"After a bit we got down to businesand straightened things out. A third

nterest in the Midas is to be set apart fo

Jeffard, to be rammed down his throa

when we find him, whether he will or noUncle Steve will go back to Denver an

set up housekeeping again; and Garvin,—

but that's the funny part of the whol

shooting-match. Garvin refuses to touch



dollar of the money as owner; insists o

eaving it in trust, just as it is now; an

made me sit down there and then an

write his will."

An outcoming car of ore drowne

Myra's exclamation of surprise.

"Fact," said Bartrow. "He reserves a

ncome to be paid to him at Uncle Steve'

discretion and mine, and at his death hi

hird goes,—to whom, do you suppose?"

"Indeed, I can't imagine,—unless it i

o Connie."

"Not much! It's to be held in trust foMargaret Gannon's children."

"For Margaret,—why, she hasn't an

children! And besides, he doesn't know



her!"

"Don't you fool yourself. He knows sh

hasn't any children, but he's living ihopes. I told you there was somethin

between them from the way Garvin turne

n and nursed the old blacksmith befor

Margaret came. You wouldn't believe itbecause they both played the total-strange

act; but that was one time when I go

ahead of you, wasn't it?"

"Yes; go on."

"Well, I made out the will, 'I, Jame

Garvin, being of sound mind,' and so on

and Uncle Steve and I witnessed it. But o

he way down to the bunk-shanty just now

pinned Garvin up against the wall an

made him tell me why. He knew Margare



when she was in the Bijou, and asked he

o marry him. She was honest enough eve

hen to refuse him. It made me want t

weep when I remembered how she habeen mixed up with Jeffard."

Myra was silent for a full minute, an

when she spoke it was out of the depths oa contrite heart.

"I made you believe that, Dick, agains

your will; and you were right, after alMr. Jeffard was only trying to help

Connie's poor people through Margaret

hough why he should do that when he wa

withholding a fortune from Uncle Stephes still a mystery."

"That is as simple as twice two," sai

he husband. "Didn't I tell you? Garvin ha



no occasion to tell him who his grub

staker was in the first place, and n

chance to do it afterward. Jeffard didn

know,—doesn't know yet."

Myra went silent again, this time fo

more than a minute.

"I have learned something, too, Dick

but I am not sure that I ought to tell it," sh

said, after the interval.

"I can wait," said Bartrow cheerfully

"I've had a full meal of double-back

action surprises as it is."

"This isn't a surprise; or it wouldn't bf we hadn't been taking too much fo

granted. I tolled Connie off to her roo

with the letter, as I said I would; and sh



—she had a fit, as you prophesied."

"Of course," says Dick. "It hurts he

more than anything to make a miscue ohe charitable side."

"Yes, but"—

"But what?"

"I'll tell you sometime, Dick, but no

now. It is too pitiful."

"I can wait," said Bartrow again; an

his lack of curiosity drove her into th

hick of it.

"If you knew you'd want to d

something,—as I do, only I don't know

how. Isn't it pretty clear that Mr. Jeffard

cares a great deal for Connie?"



"Oh, I don't know about that. Wha

makes you think so?" says the obviou

one.

"A good many little things; some word

or two that Margaret has let slip, for on

of them. How otherwise would yo

explain his eagerness to help Connie?"

"On general principles, I guess. She'

plenty good enough to warrant it."

"Yes, but it wasn't 'general principles

n Mr. Jeffard's case. He is in love wit

Connie, and"—

"And she doesn't care for him. Is that?"

"No, it isn't it; she does care for him.

fairly shocked it out of her with the letter



and that is why I oughtn't to tell it, even t

you. It is too pitiful!"

Bartrow shook his head in cheerfudensity. "Your philosophy's too deep fo

me. If they are both of one mind, as yo

say, I don't see where the pity comes in

Jeffard isn't half good enough for her, ocourse; he made a bally idiot of himself

year ago. But if she can forget that, I'

sure we ought to."

"I wasn't thinking of that. But don't yo

see how impossible this Midas tangl

makes it? He won't take his third, you ma

be very sure of that; and when he finds ouhat Connie has a daughter's share in on

of the other thirds, it will seal his lips fo

all time. People would say that he gave up

his share only to marry hers."



Bartrow got upon his feet and helpe

her to rise. "You'll take cold sitting ou

here in the ten-thousand-foot night," h

said; and on the top step of the porchflight she had his refutation of her lates

assertion.

"You say people would talk. Doesn't istrike you that Jeffard is the one man in

housand who will mount and rid

regardless?—who will smile and snap hi

fingers at public opinion? That's just whahe's been doing all along, and he'll do i

again if he feels like it. Let's go in an

congratulate the good old uncle while w

wait."



CHAPTER XXXVI

The day train from the south ran int

he early winter twilight at Acequia, and

nto the night at Littleton; and the arc star

of the city, resplendent with frost

aureoles, were brightly scintillant whe

Jeffard gave his hand-bag to the porter an

passed out through the gate at the UnioDepot. By telegraphic prearrangement, h

was to meet Denby in Denver to make hi

report upon the Chihuahuan silver mine

but when he made inquiry at the hotel hwas not sorry to find that the promoter ha

not yet arrived. It is a far cry from Sant

Rosalia to Denver; as far as from th

beginning of the seventeenth century to th



end of the nineteenth; and he was gratefu

for a little breathing space in which t

synchronize himself.

But after dinner, and a cigar burned

frugally in the great rotunda, where th

faces of all the comers and goers wer

unfamiliar, the homesickness of threturned exile came upon him, and he wen

out to grapple with it in the open air

Faring absently from street to street, wit

his hands thrust into his overcoat pocketand memory plowing its furrow deep in

field which had lain fallow through man

oil-filled weeks, he presently foun

himself drifting by squares and streetcrossings toward Capitol Hill, and out an

beyond to a broad avenue and past a hous

with a veranda in front and a deep-baye



window at the side. There were lights i

he house, and an air of owner'

occupancy about the place; and on th

veranda a big man was tramping solidlup and down, with the red spark at the en

of his cigar appearing and disappearing a

he passed and repassed the windows.

Jeffard saw the man and saw him not

The memory-plow had gone deeper, and

he winter night changed places with

June morning, with the sun shining aslanon the wide veranda, and a young woma

n a belted house-gown with loose sleeve

iptoeing on the arm of a clumsy chai

while she caught up the new growth of climbing rose. Just here the plow began t

ear up rootlets well-buried but stil

sensitive; and Jeffard turned abou



abruptly and set his face cityward.

But once again in the region of tal

buildings and peopled sidewalks, thhought of the crowded lobby and th

oneliness of it assailed him afresh, and h

changed his course again, being careful t

go at right angles to the broad avenue witts house of recollection. A little way

beyond the peopled walks the church bell

began to ring out clear and melodious o

he frosty air, and he remembered what thuncalendared journey had made hi

forget; that it was Sunday. Pacin

houghtfully, with the transit-hum of th

city behind him and the quiet house-streetahead, and the plow still shearing the so

of the fallow field, he wondered i

Constance Elliott would be among th



churchgoers. It was an upflash of the ol

cynicism which prompted the retort that i

was improbable; that the Christianity fo

which she stood was not found in thchurches. But the Puritan blood in hi

rose up in protest at that, and in th

rebound the open doors of a church on th

opposite side of the way beckoned him.

He crossed the street and entered. Th

organist was playing the voluntary, and

smart young man with a tuberose in hibuttonhole held up the finger of invitation

"Not too far forward," Jeffar

whispered; but the young man seemed noo have heard, since he led the way up th

broad centre aisle to a pew far beyond th

strangers' precinct.



The pew was unoccupied, and Jeffar

went deep into it, meaning to be well ou

of the way of later comers. But when th

finale of the voluntary merged bharmonious transpositions into the key o

he opening hymn, the other sittings in th

pew were still untaken, and Jeffar

congratulated himself. There be timewhen partial isolation, even in a sparsel

filled church, is grateful; and the furrow

n the fallow field were still smoking fro

heir recent upturning.

Jeffard stood in the hymn-singing, an

bowed his head at the prayer, not so muc

n reverence as in deference to timeplace, and encompassments. Since th

shearing of the plowshare filled his ears

he words of the beseeching were lost t



him, but he was sufficiently alive to hi

surroundings to know that the pew fille

quietly at the beginning of the prayer; an

sufficiently reserved afterward to denhimself so much as a glance aside at hi

nearest neighbor.

How long he would have sat starinabstractedly at the pictured window

beyond the choir must remain a matter fo

conjecture. The minister had given out th

psalm, and Jeffard stood up with thothers. Whereupon he saw of necessit

hat his neighbor was a woman, so smal

hat the trimmings on her modest walkin

hat came barely to his shoulder; saw thisand a moment later was looking down int

a pair of steadfast gray eyes, deep-welle

and eloquent, as she handed him an ope



book with the leaf turned down.

He took the book mechanically, wit

mute thanks, but afterward he saw anheard nothing for which the evensong i

St. Cyril's-in-the-Desert could justly b

held responsible, being lifted to a sevent

heaven of ecstasy far more real than thadepicted in the glowing periods of th

preacher. He made the most of it, knowin

hat it would presently vanish, and that h

should have to come to earth again. Andnot by whispered word or sign o

recognition would he mar the beatitude o

t. Only once, when he put aside the boo

she had given him and looked on with herdid he suffer himself to do more than t

enjoy silently and to the full the swee

pleasure of her nearness.



Under the circumstances it was no

singular that his by-glancings did not g

beyond her; and that Dick Bartrow'

hearty handclasp and stage-whispegreeting at the close of the service shoul

ake him by surprise. This he endured a

one in a dream; also the introduction to

radiant young woman with whom Bartrowpresently led the way into the stream o

decorously jostling outgoers pourin

down the great aisle. That left Jeffard t

follow with the small one; and he was stil

groping his way through the speechles

ravishment of it when they overtook th

Bartrows on the sidewalk. Dick promptlbroke the spell.

"Well, well!" he began. "Nothing

surprises me any more; otherwise I shoul



say you are about the last man on top o

earth that I'd expect to run up against i

church. Don't say 'same here,' because I d

go when I'm made to. Where in the fortyfive states and odd territories did yo

drop from?"

"Not from any one of them," laugheJeffard; and Myra remarked that Connie'

hand was still on his arm. "I am just up

from Old Mexico."

"And you made a straight shoot for

church—for our church and our pew

Good boy! You knew right where to find

us on a Sunday evening, didn't you?"

Jeffard laughed again. Since a tim

unremembered of him it had not been s

easy to laugh and be glad.



"Don't believe him, Mrs. Bartrow," h

protested. "My motive was a little mixed

'll confess, but it was altogether bette

han that. I was passing, and it occurred tme that I hadn't seen the inside of a

American church for a long time."

"Or of any other kind, I'll be bound,Bartrow amended; and then, in a spirit o

sheer ruthlessness: "Why don't you sa

something, Connie? Call him down an

make him tell the truth about it."

"You don't give any one a chance to

say anything," retorts the quiet one, with

summer-lightning flash of the old mockantagonism. And then to Jeffard: "We are

all very glad to see you again, Mr. Jeffard

Will you be in town long?"



Bartrow took the words out of hi

mouth and made answer for him.

"Of course he will; he is going to settldown and be home-folks—aren't you

Jeffard? Fall in and let's walk to wher

we can wrestle it out without freezing. It'

colder than ordinary charity standinhere."

Now the way to his hotel lay behin

him and Jeffard hesitated. WhereupoBartrow turned with a laugh derisive.

"Come on, you two. Have you forgotte

he formula, Jeffard? I'll prompt you, an

you can say it over after me. 'Miss Elliott

may I have the pleasure of seeing you'—"

Myra pounced upon the mocker an



dragged him away; and Constance cut i

swiftly.

"You mustn't mind what Dick says. Hecalls going to church 'dissipation,' and h

s never quite responsible afterward

Won't you go home with us, Mr. Jeffard?"

Jeffard murmured something about

hotel and an appointment, but he had bee

waiting only for an intimation that he wa

forgiven. So they went on togetherwalking briskly, as the frosty nigh

demanded, but they were not able t

overtake the twain in advance. For a tim

hey were both tongue-tied, and for wonder it was the man who first ros

superior to the entanglements of memory

But he was careful to choose the safest o

commonplaces for a topic. They wer



ascending Capitol Hill, and by way of

beginning he said, "Are you living in thi

part of the city now?"

"Yes; in the old place on Colfax. Dick

ran across the owner in California las

autumn and bought it."

"It is a very pleasant place," Jeffar

ventured, still determined to keep o

ground of the safest.

"Do you know it?" she said, quickly.

"Oh, yes;—er—that is, I know where i

s. I passed it one morning a long tim

ago."

"While we were living there?"

"Yes."



Silence again for one entire square an

part of another. Then she said, "How did

you know it was our house?"

He laid hold of his courage and tol

he truth. "I met your father a block or tw

down the avenue and I was hoping I migh

come upon the place where you lived. found it. You were on the veranda, tying

up the new shoots of a climbing rose."

"My 'Marechal Niel,'" she said. "It idead now; they let it freeze last winter."

He held his peace for a time, but th

rejoinder strove for speech, and had it

finally.

"The memory of it lives," he said. "

shall always see you as I saw you tha



morning, whatever comes between. You

had on some sort of a dress that reminde

me of the old Greek draperies, and yo

were standing on the arm of a big chair."

They were at the gate, and she let hi

open it for her. Bartrow and Myra wer

waiting for them at the veranda step. Hrealized that the ground was no longe

safe, and would have taken his leave at th

door. But Dick protested vigorously.

"No, you don't—drop out again like

ship in a fog. We've been laying for you

Uncle Steve and I, ever since yo

absconded last summer, and you don't geaway this time without taking you

medicine. Run him in there, Connie, an

hang on to him while I go get my slipper

and a cigar."



"There" was the cozy library, with

soft-coal fire burning cheerily in the grate

and the book-lined walls inviting enoug

o beckon any homeless one. But Jeffarwas far beyond any outreaching o

encompassments inviting or repellent

Constance drew up a chair for him befor

he fire, but he stood at the back of it anooked down upon her.

"Miss Elliott, there is something that

should like to tell you about—if it is faenough in the past," he said, when the

were alone.

She was sitting with clasped handsand there was a look in her eyes in th

swift upglancing that he could not fathom

So he waited for her to give him leave.



"Is it about Mr. Lansdale?" she asked.

"Yes. I was with him up to the last, and

thought that—that you might like to knowwhat I can tell you."

She gave him liberty, and he told th

story of the jaunt afield, dwelling chiefl

on the day-to-day improvement i

Lansdale's health, and stumbling a littl

when he came to speak of their las

evening together.

"It was a hard blow for me," he said, a

he end of it, and his voice was low an

unsteady with emotion. "You know wha

had gone before—what I had lost an

couldn't regain; and having failed at al

points I had hoped to succeed in this: t

bring him back to you sound and well



And when the possibility was fairl

within reach it was taken out of my hand

forever."

She was silent for a little time, fightin

a sharp battle with reticence new-bor

and masterful. When she spoke it was a

one who is constrained to walk with barfeet in a thorny path of frankness.

"To bring him back to me, you say; and

n your letter to Dick you said that yousorrow was second only to mine. Was he

not your friend, as well as mine?"

"I loved him," said Jeffard, simply

"but not as you did."

Again the struggle was upon her, and

for a moment she thought that the sound o



Dick's returning footsteps would be th

signal of a blessed release. But the hear

of sincerity would not be denied.

"Let there be no mor

misunderstandings," she said, bravely

"We have all wronged you so deeply tha

you have a right to know the truth. MrLansdale was my friend—as he wa

yours."

"But he meant to be more," Jeffarpersisted—"and if he had come back wit

he courage of health to help him say it

you would not have denied him."

She made a little gesture of dissent.

"His health had nothing to do with i

And—and he said it before he wen



away."

Jeffard smiled. "You have halved the

bitterness of it for me—as you would havessened my reward if I had succeeded i

bringing him back alive and well. M

motive was mixed, as most huma

promptings are,—I can see that now,—buhe better part of it was a desire to prov

o you that I could do it for your sake. M

debt to you is so large that nothing short o

self-effacement can ever discharge it."

"How can you say that!" she burst ou

"Wasn't I one of the three who ought to

have believed in you?—the one whpromised and failed and made it harde

for you at every turn? You owe me nothing

but scorn."



He contradicted her gravely. "I ow

you everything that has been saved out o

he wreck of the man who once sat besid

you in the theatre and found fault with thworld for his own shortcomings. You are

remorseful now because you think yo

misjudged me; but you must believe m

when I tell you that it was my love for yohat saved me, at the end of the ends,—tha

kept me from doing precisely what yo

hought I had done. It was a fearfu

emptation. Garvin had fairly tossed th

hing into the abyss."

"I know; but it was only a temptation

and you did not yield to it."

"No; I was able to put it aside in th

strength born of four words of yours. At

ime when I had forgotten God and so wa



willing to think that He had forgotten me

you said 'I believe in you.' You remember

t?"

She nodded assent, looking up wit

shining eyes to say, "Don't make m

ashamed that I hadn't the strength to go o

believing in you."

"Don't say that. You have nothing to

regret. My silence was the price o

Garvin's safety, at first, and I knew whahe cost would be when I determined t

pay it. Later on the fault was mine; bu

hen I found that I had unconsciously bee

counting upon blind loyalty; yours, anDick's, and Lansdale's;—counting upon i

after I had done everything to make i

mpossible. I had told Dick in th

beginning, and I tried to tell Lansdale



Dick wanted to believe in me,—ha

wanted to all along, I think,—but Lansdal

had drawn his own conclusions, and h

made my explanation fit them. It hurt, and gave place to bitterness."

"And yet you would have saved hi

for—for—"

"For that which I couldn't have myself

Yes; but you know the motive."

She met his gaze with a new ligh

shining in the steadfast eyes. "I am no

worthy," she said, softly; and he wen

quickly to stand beside her.

"You are worthy; worthy of the bes

hat any man can give you, Constance

How little I have to offer you, beyond



ove that was strong enough to stand asid

for the sake of your happiness, you know

Ever since that afternoon when you strov

with me for my own soul I've been livinon your compassion, and it is very swee

—but I want more. May I hope to wi

more—in time?"

She shook her head, and his hear

stopped beating. But it came alive agai

with a tumultuous bound at the words o

he soft-spoken reply.

"You won it long ago, so long that I've

forgotten when and how. And it's strong

oo, like yours. I've tried hard enough tstarve it, but it has lived—lived o

nothing."

She was sitting in a low willow



rocker, and the distance between the

was altogether impossible. So he wen

down on one knee and put his arms abou

her; and but for his manhood would havput his face in her bosom and wept.

"Do you really mean that, Constance?

he said, when he had drunk his fill frohe deep wells in the loving eyes.

"I do."

"In spite of what you believed I ha

done to Garvin, and of what you believe

was capable of doing with Margaret?"

"In spite of everything. Wasn't idreadful?"

"It was—" There was no superlativ

strong enough, though he sought for i



painfully and with tears. "God help me

sweetheart, I believe I shall go mad wit

he joy of it." And having said that, speec

forsook him, and the silence that is goldecame between. After a while she broke i

o say:

"Dick is good, isn't he?—to be so lonfinding his slippers and the cigar."

"Dick is a man and a brother. I wonde

f we can persuade him to give me a placon the Myriad."

"You wouldn't take it."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you own an undivided thir

of a richer mine than the Little Myriad

and—and you are going to marry anothe



hird," she said, with sweet audacity.

There was a hassock convenient, an

he drew it up to sit at her feet."Break it as gently as you can," h

entreated. "My cup is too full to hold muc

more. Besides, I've been in Mexico for th

ast three months, and nothing happen

here."

"It's the Midas," she explained

beginning in the midst. "You saved it fo

Garvin, but he was only a half-owner."

"And the other?"

"Was my father. When it came to the

apportionment they both said 'thirds,' an

hat is what poppa and Dick are waiting t

say to you now."



He found his feet rather unsteadily.

"I can't take it," he said; "you know

can't. It would be too much like taking reward for an act of simple justice

Moreover, I have my reward, and it isn

o be spoken of in the same day with an

Midas of them all. I'll go and tell theso."



She rose and stood beside him, liftin

he loving eyes to his. The soft glow of th

firelight made a golden aureole of the red

brown hair, and the sweet lips werremulous.

"If you must, Henry. But loving

kindness isn't always in giving and servinand relinquishing. My father has his idea

of justice, too, and so has James Garvin

But for you, they say, the Midas would

never have been found, or, having beefound, would straightway have been los

again. I know the money is nothing to you

—to us two, who have so much; but won

you make a little concession, a littlsacrifice of pride,—for their sakes

Henry?"

He took her face between his hand



and bent to kiss the lips of pleading.

"Not for their sakes, nor for all th

world beside, my beloved; but always analways for yours. Come; let us g

ogether."

ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED

BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.

The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A.

Transcriber's Notes:



Varied hyphenation was

retained.

Page 234, comma changedto a period. (fair enough. It's

accepted)

Page 266, "Connie" changed

to "Connie's" (Connie's eyes

danced)

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The

Helpers, by Francis Lynde

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