TREASURE _and_ TROUBLE THEREWITH

 _A TALE OF CALIFORNIA_

 BY GERALDINE BONNER

 1917

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER

JOHN BONNER

WHO, HIMSELF A WRITER, TRAINED ME IN THE WORK HE LOVED. WHAT MERIT THEREADER MAY FIND IN THESE PAGES IS THE RESULT OF THAT TRAINING, UNDERTAKENWITH A FATHER'S PRIDE, CARRIED ON WITH A FATHER'S BELIEF ANDENCOURAGEMENT. 

GERALDINE BONNER

CONTENTS

 I. HANDS UP

 II. THE TULES

 III. MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE

 IV. THE DERELICT

 V. THE MARKED PARAGRAPH

 VI. PANCHA

 VII. THE PICAROON

 VIII. THOSE GIRLS OF GEORGE'S

 IX. GREEK MEETS GREEK

 X. MICHAELS THE MINER

 XI. THE SOLID GOLD NUGGET

 XII. A KISS

 XIII. FOOLS IN THEIR FOLLY

 XIV. THE NIGHT RIDER

 XV. THE LAST DINNER

 XVI. THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

 XVII. THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING

 XVIII. OUTLAWED

 XIX. HALF TRUTHS AND INFERENCES

 XX. MARK PAYS A CALL

 XXI. A WOMAN SCORNED

 XXII. THEREBY HANGS A TALE

 XXIII. THE CHINESE CHAIN

 XXIV. LOVERS AND LADIES

 XXV. WHAT JIM SAW

 XXVI. PANCHA WRITES A LETTER

 XXVII. BAD NEWS

 XXVIII. CHRYSTIE SEES THE DAWN

 XXIX. LORRY SEES THE DAWN

 XXX. MARK SEES THE DAWN

 XXXI. REVELATION

 XXXII. THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT

 XXXIII. THE MORNING THAT CAME

 XXXIV. LOST

 XXXV. THE UNKNOWN WOMAN

 XXXVI. THE SEARCH

 XXXVII. HAIL AND FAREWELL

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

He . .. Heard the feller at the wheel say, "Hands up!" _Frontispiece_

"Oh, silly, unbelieving child!" came his voice

As it came it sent up a hoarse cry for food

The ghost of a smile touched her lips

TREASURE _and_ TROUBLE THEREWITH

CHAPTER I

HANDS UP

The time was late August some eleven years ago. The place that part ofcentral California where, on one side, the plain unrolls in goldenlevels, and on the other swells upward toward the rounded undulations ofthe foothills. 

It was very hot; the sky a fathomless blue vault, the land dreaming inthe afternoon glare, its brightness blurred here and there by shimmeringheat veils. Checkered by green and yellow patches, dotted with the blackdomes of oaks, it brooded sleepily, showing few signs of life. At longintervals ranch houses rose above embowering foliage, a green core in themidst of fields where the brown earth was striped with lines of fruittrees or hidden under carpets of alfalfa. To the west the foothills rosein indolent curves, tan-colored, as if clothed with a leathern hide. Their hollows were filled with the darkness of trees huddled about hiddenstreams, ribbons of verdure that wound from the mountains to the plain. Farther still, vision faint, remote and immaculate, the white peaks ofthe Sierra hung, a painting on the drop curtain of the sky. 

Across the landscape a parent stem of road wound, branches breaking fromit and meandering thread-small to ranch and village. It was white-dustedhere, but later would turn red and crawl upward under the resinousdimness of pine woods to where the mining camps clung on the lower wallof the Sierra. Already it had left behind the region of farms inneighborly proximity and the little towns that were threaded along itlike beads upon a string. Watching its eastward course, one would havenoticed that after it crested the first rise it ran free of habitationfor miles. 

Along its empty length a dust cloud moved, a tarnishing spot on theafternoon's hard brightness. This spot was the one point of energy in theuniversal torpor. From it came the rhythmic beat of flying hoofs and thejingle of harness. It was the Rocky Bar stage, up from Shilo throughPlymouth, across the Mother Lode and then in a steep, straining grade onto Antelope and Rocky Bar, camps nestling in the mountain gorges. It wasmaking time now against the slow climb later, the four horses racing, thereins loose on their backs. 

There was only one passenger; the others had been dropped at towns alongthe route. He sat on the front seat beside Jim Bailey the driver, hisfeet on a pine box and a rifle across his knees. He and Jim Bailey kneweach other well, for he had often come that way, always with his box andhis rifle. He was Wells Fargo's messenger and his name was Danny Leonard. In the box at his feet were twelve thousand dollars in coin to bedelivered that night to the Greenhide Mine at Antelope. 

With nothing of interest in sight, talk between them was desultory. JimBailey thought they'd take on some men at Plymouth when they stoppedthere to victual up. The messenger, squinting at the swimming yellowdistance, yawned and said it might be a good thing, nobody knew whenKnapp and Garland would get busy again. They'd failed in the holdup ofthe Rockville stage last spring and it was about time to hear fromthem--the road after you passed Plymouth was pretty lonesome. Jim Baileysnorted contemptuously and spat over the wheel--he guessed Knapp andGarland weren't liable to bother _him_. 

After this the conversation dropped. The stifling heat, the whirling dustclouds broken by whiffs of air, dry as from a kiln and impregnated withthe pungent scent of the tarweed, made the men drowsy. Jim Bailey nodded, the reins drawing slack between his fingers. Leonard slipped the riflefrom his knees to the floor and relaxed against the back of the seat. Through half-shut lids he watched the whitened crests of the Sierrabrushed on the turquoise sky. 

The horses clattered down a gulley and galloped across a wooden bridgethat spanned a dead watercourse. The ascent was steep and they took itat a rush, backs humped, necks stretched, hoofs clattering amongloosened stones. 

A sudden breeze carried their dust ahead, and for a moment the prospectwas obscured, the trees that filled the gulley, bunched at the summitinto a thicket, just discernible in foggy outline. The horses had gainedthe level, Jim Bailey, who knew the road in his sleep, had cheered themwith a familiar chirrup, when the leaders stopped, recoiling in a clatterof slackened harness on the wheelers. The stage came to a halt so violentthat Jim Bailey lurched forward against the splashboard, the reins jerkedout of his hands. He did not know what had happened, could see nothingbut the horses' backs, jammed together, lines and traces slapping abouttheir flanks. 

Afterward, describing it at Mormons Landing, he laid it all to the dust. In that first moment of surprise he hadn't made out the men, and anywaywho'd have expected it--on the open road in the full of the afternoon?You couldn't put any blame on him, sprawled on his knees, the whole thingcoming so quick. When he picked himself up he looked into the muzzle of arevolver and saw behind it a head, only the eyes showing between the hatbrim and a gunny sack tied round the lower part of the face. 

After that it all went so swift you couldn't hardly tell. He didn't eventhen know there were two of them--heard the feller at the wheel say, "Hands up, " and thought that was all there was to it--when the one at thehorses' heads fired. Leonard had given an oath and reached for his gun, and right with that the report came, and Leonard heaved up with a sort ofgrunt, and then settled and was still. The other feller came along downthrough the dust, and Jim Bailey, paralyzed, with his hands up, knewKnapp and Garland had got him at last. 

The one at the wheel kept him covered while the other pulled out the box. He could see him plain, all but his face, a big powerful chap, shoulderson him like a prize fighter's, and freckled hands covered with red hair. He got the box out with a jerk and dropped it, and then, snatching up astick, struck the near wheeler a blow on the flank and jumped back intothe bushes. 

The horses started, mad, like they were locoed; it was a wonder the stagewasn't upset, racing this way and that, up the bank and down on the otherside. Jim Bailey crawled out on the axle, picked up the dragging reinsand got back just in time to keep Leonard from bouncing out. He heavedhim up and held him round the body, and when he got the horses goingstraight, took a look at him. That first time he thought he was dead, white as chalk and with his eyes turned up. But after a spell of going hedecided there was life in him yet, and holding him with one arm, stretched the other over the splashboard, shaking the reins on thewheelers' backs, and the way those horses buckled to their work was worthgettin' held up to see. 

Half an hour later the Rocky Bar stage came like a cyclone into MormonsLanding, Jim Bailey hopping like a grasshopper on the front seat, and onhis arm Danny Leonard, shot through the lung. They drew up in front ofthe Damfino Saloon, and Mormons Landing, dead among its deserted ditches, knew again a crowded hour of glorious life. Everybody came running andlined up along the sidewalk, later to line up along the Damfino Bar. Thewidow woman who ran the eating house put Danny Leonard in her own bed andsent one of her sons, aged six, to San Marco for a doctor, and the other, aged eight, to Jackson for the sheriff. 

Before night fell the news had flashed through the countryside. On ranchpiazza and in cabin doorway, in the camps along the Mother Lode and thevillages of the plain, men were telling one another how Knapp andGarland had held up the Rocky Bar stage and got away with twelvethousand dollars in gold. 

CHAPTER II

THE TULES

The place of the holdup was on the first upward roll of the hills. Farther back, along more distant slopes, the chaparral spread like a darkcloth but here there was little verdure. The rainless California summerhad scorched the country; mounded summit swelled beyond mounded summitall dried to a uniform ochre. But if you had stood on the rise where thestage stopped and faced toward the west, you would have seen, stretchingto the horizon, a green expanse that told of water. 

This was the tules, a vast spread of marsh covered with bulrushes, flatas a floor, and extending from a distant arm of the bay back into theland. It was like a wedge of green thrust through the yellow, splittingit apart, at one end meeting the sky in a level line, at the othernarrowing to a point which penetrated the bases of the hills. From thesestreams wound down ravine and rift till their currents slipped into thebrackish waters of the marsh. Such a stream, dried now to a few stagnantpools, had worn a way along the gulley where the holdup had occurred. 

Down this gulley, the box between them, the bandits ran. Alders and baygrew thick, sun spots glancing through their leaves, boughs slapping andslashing back from the passage of the rushing bodies, stones rollingunder the flying feet. The heat was suffocating, the narrow cleft holdingit, the matted foliage keeping out all air. The men's faces wereempurpled, the gunny sacks about their necks were soaked with sweat. Theyspoke little--a grunt, a muttered oath as a stone turned. Doubled underthe branches, crashing through a covert with closed eyes and warding arm, they fled, now and then pausing for a quick change of hands on the box orthe sweep of a sleeve across a dripping brow. Nearly a half hour from thetime they had started they emerged into brighter light, the trees growingsparse, the earth moist, a soft coolness rising--the creek's conjunctionwith the tules. 

The sun was sloping westward, the sky infinitely blue and clear, goldenlight slanting across the plain's distant edges. Before them, silent, nota breath stirring the close-packed growth, stretched the marshes. Theywere miles in extent; miles upon miles of these level bulrush spearsthreaded with languid streams, streams that curved and looped, turnedback upon themselves, narrowed into gleaming veins, widened to miniaturelakes on whose bosom the clouds, the birds and the stars were mirrored. They were like a crystal inlay covering the face of the tules with anintricate, shining pattern. No place was ever more deserted, alien, uninhabitable, making no compromise with the friendly, fruitful land. 

Against the muddy edge a rotten punt holding a pole swung deliberate froma stake. The men put the box in, then followed, and the elder, standingin the stern, took the pole and, pushing against the bank, drove the boatinto deep water. It floated out, two ripples folding back oily sleek fromits bow. After the Indian fashion, the man propelled it with the pole, prodding against the bottom. He did it skillfully, the unwieldly hulkmaking a slow, even progress. He also did it with a singular absence ofsound, the pole never grating on the gunnel, feeling quietly along thesoft mud of the shores, rising from the water, held suspended, thenslipping in again as noiseless as the dip of the dragon flies. 

No words passed between them. Sliding silent over the silent stream, theywere like a picture done in a few strong colors, violent green of therushes, violent blue of the sky. Their reflection moved with them, twoboats joining at the water line, in each boat two figures, every fold oftheir garments, every shade and high light, minutely and dazzlinglyreproduced. 

Highwayman is a word of picturesque suggestion, but there was nothingpicturesque about them. They looked like laborers weather-worn from windand sun; the kind of men that crowd the streets of new camps and standround the cattle pens at country fairs. Knapp, sitting in the bow, wasyounger than the other--under thirty probably. He was a big-boned, powerful animal, his thick, reddish hair growing low on his forehead, hisface, with its wide nose and prominent jaw, like the study of a face leftin the rough. In his stolid look there was something childlike, his eyesfollowing the flight of a bird in the air, then dropping to see itsreflection in the water. 

Garland was older, fully fifty, burly, thickset, strong as an ox. His hatlay in the bottom of the boat and his head, covered with curly, grizzledhair, was broad and well-shaped. A corresponding grizzle of beard clothedhis chin and fringed a straight line of lip. The rest of his face showedthe skin sun-dried and lined less from age than a life in the open. Wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes, and one, like a fold inthe flesh, crossed his forehead in a deep-cut crease. His clothes were ofthe roughest, a dirty collarless shirt with a rag of red bandanna roundthe neck, a coat shapeless and dusty, and overalls grease andmud-smeared with the rubbing of his hands. His boots were the iron-hardclouts of the rancher, his hat a broken black felt, sweat-stained andtorn. Passing him on the road, you would have set him down as a farm handout of a job. 

The boat had passed beyond the shelter of the hills to where the tuleswidened. Pausing, he glanced about. Far to the right he could see a smallwhite square--the lodge of a sportsman's club which in the duck shootingseason would disgorge men and dogs into the marsh. It was closed now, buton the plain beyond there were ranches. He dropped to his knees, shippedthe pole, and drew from the bottom of the boat a piece of wood roughlyshaped into a paddle. Here in the heart of the tules, where a head movingover the bulrush floor might be discerned, sound would not carry far. Hedipped in the paddle, the long spray of drops hitting the water with adry, running patter. 

The man in front moved and looked ahead. 

"We'd ought to be near there. "

"A few yards over to the right, " came the answer, and with it the boattook a sharp turn to the left, nosing along the bank, then stole down awaterway, a crystal channel between ramparts of green. This looped at aright angle, shone with a sudden glaze of sun, slipped into shadow and, rounding a point, an island with a bare, oozy edge came into view. 

A deep stroke of the paddle sent the boat forward, its bow burrowing intothe mud, and Knapp jumped out and beached it. The place was a smallislet, one side clear, a wall of rushes, thick as grass, clothing theother. Over the water line the earth was hard, its surface cracked andflaked by the sun. On this open space lay two battered kerosene oil cans, their tops torn away, and a pile of stones. The hiding place was not anew one and the properties were already prepared. 

With a knife and chisel they broke open the box. The money was in smallcanvas sacks, clean as if never used before and marked with a stenciled"W. F. & Co. " They took it out and looked at it; hefted its weight intheir hands. It represented the first success after several failures, onebrought to trial, others frustrated in the making or abandoned afterwarnings from the ranchers and obscure townsfolk who stood in with them. Knapp had been discouraged. Now he took a handful and spread it on hispalm, golden eagles, heavy, shining, solid. Swaying his wrist, he let thesun play on them, strike glints from their edges, burnish their surface. 

"Twelve thousand, " he murmured. "We ain't but once before got that much. "

The elder, pulling the gunny sack from his neck, dropped it into one ofthe oil cans, pressing it against the sides like a lining. 

"I can get the ranch now; six thousand'll cover everything. "

"Are you honestly calculatin' to do that?" Knapp had reached for theother can. With arm outstretched, he looked at Garland, gravely curious. 

"I am. I told you so before. I had a look at it again last week. They'llsell for four thousand, and it'll take five hundred to put it into shape. I'll bank the rest. "

"And you'll quit?"

"Certain. I've had enough of the road. "

The younger man pondered, watching the hands of his partner fitting themoney bags into the can. "Mebbe you got the right idea, " he muttered. 

"It's the right idea for me. I'm not what I once was, I'm old. It's timefor me to lay off and rest. I can't keep this up forever and now I gotthe chance to get out and I'm goin' to. "

He had filled his can and rose, taking off his coat and throwing it onthe ground. Picking up the knife and chisel he went back to where thebulrushes began and crushed in among them. Knapp, packing the other can, could hear the sound of his heavy movements, the hacking of the knife atthe bulrush stalks and then the thud of falling earth. When he had filledhis can he saw that there were two sacks left over. He took them up and, looking about, caught sight of a newspaper protruding from the pocket ofGarland's coat. He pulled it out, calling as he did so:

"There's two sacks I can't get in. I'm goin' to put 'em in this herepaper you got. "

A grunt of acquiescence came from the bulrushes, the hacking of theknife, the thuds going on. Knapp unfolded the paper, set the sacks in it, and, gathering it about them, placed it on the top of his can. He heavedthe whole up and crashed through the rushes to where Garland had alreadycleared a space and was digging a hole in the mud. When it was finished, the cans--the newspaper bundle on top--were lowered into it, and earthand roots replaced. No particular attempt was made at concealment; thecache was as secure against intrusion as if it were on the crest of theSierra, and within the week they would be back to empty it. The box wasfilled with stones and sunk in the stream. 

Then they rested, prone on the ground, at first talking a little. Therewas a question about the messenger; Knapp had shot and was casuallyconfident he had only winged him. The matter seemed to give him noanxiety, and presently, his head burrowed into his arm, he fell asleep, a great, sprawled figure with the sun making his red hair shine like acopper helmet. 

Garland lay on his back, his coat for a pillow, smoking a blackened pipeand thinking. He saw the sky lose its blue, and fade to a thin, whitishtransparency, then flush to rose, bird specks skimming across it. He sawthe tules grow dark, black walls flanking paths incredibly glossy, catching here and there a barring of golden cloud. He felt the breath ofthe marshes chill and salt-tainted, and watched the first star, white asa diamond, prick through the vault. 

Then he rose and shook his partner, waking him with voluble profanity. The night had come, the dark that was to hide their stealthy exit. Theywent different ways; Knapp by a series of trails and planks to the southbank and thence across country, footing it through the night to his lairnear Stockton. Garland would move north to friends of his up toward themining camps along the Feather. They made a rendezvous for a night sixdays distant. Then they would carry away the money to places of safetywhich they went to prepare. 

The sky was star-strewn as Garland's punt slipped away from the island. It was intensely still, a whisper of water round the moving prow, thesibilant dip of the paddle the only sounds. He could see the water as apale, winding shimmer ahead, dotted with star reflections like small, scattered flowers. Once, rising to make sure of his course, he saw thetiny yellow light in a ranch house far away. He stood for a momentlooking at it, and when he crouched again the light had kindled hisimagination. Its spark glowed wide till it showed the ranch kitchen, windows open to the blue night, earth smells floating in, the table withits kerosene lamp, the rancher reading the paper, his dog sleeping athis feet, peaceful, unguarded, secure. 

Conscious of distance to be traversed before he became a creature of waryinstincts and watchful eyes, he let his thoughts have way. They slippedabout and touched the future with a sense of ease, then veered to thepast. Here they steadied, memories rising photographically distinct likea series of pictures, detached yet revealing an underlying thread ofconnection:

First it was his youth in the Southwest when he had been Tom Michaels, aminer, well paid, saving his wages. Then his marriage with Juana Ramirez, the half-breed girl at Deming, and the bit of land he had bought--with amortgage to pay--in the glaring, green river valley. Glimpses of theirlife there, children and work--stupefying, tremendous work--to keep themgoing and to meet the interest; he had been a giant in those days. 

And even so he hadn't been able to do it. Six years after they tookpossession they moved out, ruined. He remembered it as if it had beenyesterday--the adobe house with its flat roof and strings of red peppershanging on the walls, the cart piled high with furniture, Juana on thefront seat and Pancha astride of the mule. Juana had grown old in thosesix years, fat and shapeless, but she had been dog-loyal, dog-loving, hiswoman. Never a word of complaint out of her--even when the two childrendied she had just covered her head with the blanket and sat by thehearth, stoical, dry-eyed, silent. 

He could see now that it was his dream of making money--big money--thathad been wrong. If he'd been content with a wage and a master he'd havedone better by her, but from the start he'd wanted his freedom, balked atbeing roped and branded with the herd. That was why he drifted back tomining, not a steady job, though he could have got it, but as aprospector, leaving Arizona and moving to California. There were years ofit; he knew the mineral belt from the Panamint mountains to the Kootenaicountry. Juana and Pancha plodded from town to town, seeing him atintervals, always expecting to hear he'd struck "the ledge, " and behardly able to scrape a living for them from the bottom of his pan. 

One picture stood out clearer than the rest, ineffaceable, to be carriedto his grave--the day he came back and heard that Juana was dead. He hadleft them at a place in Inyo, a scattering of houses on the edge of thedesert. Pancha saw him coming, and her figure, racing to meet him in ablown flutter of cotton skirt, was as plain before his eyes as if shewere running toward him now along the shining water path. She was twelve, brown as a nut, and scarecrow-thin, with a tangle of black hair, andnarrow, dark eyes. He could recall the feel of her little hard handinside his as she told him, excited at imparting such news, pushing thehair off her dirty face to see how he took it. 

It had crushed the heart in him and some upholding principle of hope andresolution broke. He found a place for Pancha with Maria Lopez, theMexican woman who ran the Buon Gusto restaurant at Bakersfield andagreed to look after the girl for pay. Then he went back to the open, not caring much, the springs of his soul gone dry. He had no energy forthe old life and did other things, anything to make his own food andPancha's keep--herded sheep, helped on the cattle ranges, tended store, hung on the fringes of the wilderness, saw men turn to savages andturned himself. 

At long intervals he went down to the settlements and saw Pancha, growinginto a gawky girl, headstrong, and with the wildness of her mother'speople cropping out. She hated Maria Lopez and the work in the restaurantand wanted him to take her to the mountains. When she was sixteen a spellof illness laid him up and after that he had difficulty in getting work. Two months passed without a payment and when he finally got down toBakersfield he found that Pancha had gone, run away with a travelingcompany of actors. Maria Lopez and he had a fight, raged at one anotherin mutual fury, and then he started out to find his girl, not knowingwhen he did what he would do with her. 

She solved that problem; she insisted on staying with the actors. Sheliked the life, she could sing, they told her she had a future. She hadfixed and settled everything, even to her name; she would retain that ofLopez, which she was already known by in Bakersfield. There was nothingfor it but to let her have her way; a man without home, money orprospects has no authority. But the sense of his own failure, of thehopelessness of his desire to shelter and enrich her, fell on hisconscience like a foot on a spark and crushed it out. He returned to themountains, his hand against all men, already an outlaw, love for his ownall that was left of the original man. That governed him, gave him thewill to act, stimulated his brain, and lent his mind an unfailingcunning. The meeting with Knapp crystallized into a partnership, but whenGarland the bandit rose on the horizon, no one, least of all Pancha, knewhe was Michaels the miner. 

He stood up in the boat and again reconnoitered; he was near the shore. The country slept under the stars, gray rollings of hills and blackblotches of trees, very still in its somber repose. Dropping back to theseat, he plied the paddle with extraordinary softness, wary, listening, alert. Soon, in a week or two, if he could settle the sale, he would beon his way to San Francisco to tell Pancha he had sold his claim at lastand had bought the ranch. Under his caution the pleasure of this thoughtpervaded him with an exquisite satisfaction. He could not forbear itsindulgence and, leaning on the paddle, allowed himself a last, delightfulvision--the ranch house piazza with Pancha--her make-up off--sitting onthe steps at his feet. 

That night he slept in the cowshed of an abandoned ranch. A billet ofwood under his head, his repose was deep and dreamless, but in the dawn'slight he woke, suddenly called out of slumber by a thought. It floated onthe surface of his conciousness, vaguely disturbing, then took slow shapeand he sat up feeling in the pockets of his coat. The paper was gone;Knapp saying he had taken it was not a dream. For a space he sat, comingto clearer recollection, his partner's voice calling, vaguely heard, itsrequest unheeded in his preoccupation. He gave a mutter of relief, anddropping back settled himself into comfort. The paper was as safe thereas in his own pocket and he'd have it again inside of a week. With thefirst light in his eyes, he lapsed off again for another hour. 

CHAPTER III

MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE

A few miles below where the stage was held up a branch road breaks fromthe main highway and cuts off at right angles across the plain. This is aranchers' road. If you follow it southward you come to the region of vastholdings, acres of trees in parallel lines as straight as if laid with atape measure, great, fawn-colored fields, avenues of palm and oleanderleading to white houses where the balconies have striped awnings andpeople sit in cushioned wicker chairs. 

The other end of it runs through lands of decreasing cultivationtill--after it passes Tito Murano's cottage--it dips to the tules andthat's the end of it. To be sure, a trail--a horse path--breaks away andmakes a detour round the head of the marshes, but this is seldom used, abog in winter and in summer riven with dried water-courses and overgrownwith brambles. To get around the tules comfortably you have to strikefarther in and that's a long way. 

The last house before you get to Tito Murano's, which doesn't count, isthe Burrage Ranch. In the white mansions among the fruit trees theBurrage Ranch doesn't count much either. It is old and small, fiftyacres, a postage stamp of a ranch. There is no avenue to the house, which is close to the road behind a picket fence, and instead ofencircling balconies and striped awnings, it has one small porch with asagging top, over which climbs a rose that stretches long festoons tothe gable. In its yard grow two majestic live oaks, hoary giants withsilvered limbs reaching out in a thick-leaved canopy and casting a greatspread of shade. 

Old Man Burrage had had the ranch a long time as they reckon time inCalifornia. In his youth he had seen the great epoch in Virginia City, figured in it in a humble capacity, and emerged from its final _débâcle_with twenty thousand dollars. He should have emerged with more and thathe didn't made him chary of mining. Peace and security exerted theirappeal, and after looking about for a few reflective years, he hadmarried the prettiest waitress in the Golden Nugget Hotel in Placervilleand settled down to farming. He had settled and settled hard, settledlike a barnacle, so firm and fast that he had never been able to pullhimself loose. Peace he had found but also poverty. If the mineral veinwas capricious, so were the elements, insect pests and the fruit market. Thirty years after he had bought the ranch he was still there and stillpoor with his wife Mary Ellen, his daughter Sadie and his son Mark. 

Mark's advent had followed the decease of two older boys and his motherhad proclaimed his preciousness by christening him Marquis de Lafayette. Her other sons had borne the undistinguished appellations of relatives, but this one, her consolation and her Benjamin, would be decked with theflower of her fancy. Of the original bearer of the name she knew nothing. Waiting on table at the Golden Nugget and later bearing children andhelping on the ranch had not left her time for historical study. When herson, waking to the blight she had so innocently put upon him, asked herwhere she had found the name, she had answered, "In a book, " but beyondthat could give no data. When, unable to bear his shame, he hadabbreviated it to "Mark D. L. " she had been hurt. 

Otherwise he had not disappointed her. When she had crowned him with atitle she had felt that a high destiny awaited him and the event provedit. After a youth on the ranch, Mark, at sixteen, grew restive, atseventeen announced that he wanted an education and at eighteen packedhis grip and went to work his way through Stanford University. Old ManBurrage made himself a bore at the crossroads store and the county fairtelling how his boy was waiting on table down to Stanford and doingtypewriting nights. Some boy, that!

When Mark came home on his vacations it was like the return of Ulyssesafter his ten years' wandering--they couldn't look at him enough, or getenough time to listen. His grammar was straightened out, his chin smooth, the freckles gone from his hands, and yet he was just the same--no fancyfrills about _him_, Old Man Burrage bragged to his cronies. And then camethe coping stone--he told them he was going to be a lawyer. Some of theneighbors laughed but others grew thoughtful and nodded commendingly. Even on the balconies of the white houses in the wicker chairs under theawnings Mark and his aspirations drew forth interested comment. Most ofthese people had known him since he was a shock-headed, barefoot kid, andwhen they saw him in his store clothes and heard his purified grammar, they realized that for youth in California belongs the phrase "the worldis my oyster. "

Now Mark had graduated and was studying in a large law office in SanFrancisco. He was paid twenty dollars a week, was twenty-four years old, rather silent, five-feet-ten and accounted good-looking. At the time thisstory opens he was spending his vacation--pushed on to the summer's endby a pressure of work in the office--on the ranch with his parents. 

It was late afternoon, on the day following the holdup, and he wassitting in the barn doorway milking the brown cow. The doorway wasshadowed, the blackness of the barn's interior behind it, the scent ofclean hay drifting out and mingling with the scents of baked earth andtarweed that came from the heated fields. With his cheek against thecow's side he could see between the lower limbs of the oaks the countrybeyond, rust-colored and tan, streaked with blue shadows and the mottledblackness below the trees. Turning a little further he could look downthe road with the eucalyptus tall on either side, the yellow path barredby their shade. From the house came a good smell of hot bread and a soundof voices--Mother and Sadie were getting ready for supper. At intervalsMother's face, red and round below her sleeked, gray hair, her spectaclesup, her dress turned in at the neck, appeared at the window to take arefreshing peep at her boy milking the brown cow. 

The milk sizzed and foamed in the pail and the milker, his foreheadagainst the cow's warm pelt, watched it rise on the tin's side. It made aloud drumming which prevented his hearing a hail from the picket fence. The hail came again in a husky, dust-choked voice:

"Hello, can you give me a drink?"

This time Mark heard and wheeled on the stool. A tramp was leaningagainst the fence looking at him. 

Tramps are too familiar in California for curiosity or interest, alsothey are unpopular. They have done dreadful things--lonely women inoutlying farms have guns and dogs, the one loaded, the other cultivatedin savagery against the visits of the hobo. 

Mark rose unwelcoming, but the fellow did look miserable. He was gauntand dirty, long ragged locks of hair falling below the brim of his tornstraw hat, an unkempt straggle of beard growing up his cheeks. Hisclothes hung loose on his lean frame, and he looked all the same color, dust-brown, his hair, his shirt, his coat, even his face, the tan lyingdark over a skin that was sallow. Only his eyes struck a different note. They were gray, very clear in the sun-burned face, the lids long andheavy. Their expression interested Mark; it was not the stone-hard, evillook of the outcast man, but one of an unashamed, smoldering resentment. 

The same quality was in his manner. The request for water was neitherfawningly nor piteously made. It was surly, a right churlishlydemanded. Mark moved to the pump and filled the glass standing there. The tramp leaning on the pickets looked at him, his glance travelingmorose over the muscular back and fine shoulders, the straight nape, the dark head with its crown of thick, coarse hair. As Mark advancedwith the glass he continued his scrutiny, when, suddenly meeting theyoung man's eyes, his own shifted and he said in that husky voice, hoarse from a parched throat:

"It's the devil walking in the heat on these rotten dusty roads. "

The other nodded and handed him the glass. He drained it, tilting hishead till the sinews in his haggard throat showed below his beard. Thenhe handed it back with a muttered thanks. 

"Been walking far?" said Mark. 

The tramp moved away from the pickets, jerking his head toward the roadbehind him. For the first time Mark noticed that he had a basket on hisarm, containing a folded blanket. 

"From the fruit farms down there. I've been working my way up fruitpicking. But it's a dog's job; better starve while you're about it. Thankyou. So long. "

It was evident he wanted no further parley, for he started off down theroad. Mark stood looking after him. He noticed that he was tall andwalked with a long stride, not the lazy shuffle of the hobo. Also he hadcaught a quality of education in the husky voice. Under its coarsenedinflections there was an echo of something cultured, not fitting with hispresent appearance, a voice that might once have known very differentconditions. Possibly a dangerous chap, Mark thought; had an ugly look, asecret, forbidding sort of face. When the educated kind dropped they wereapt to fall further and come down harder than the others. He threw theglass into the bushes and went in to wash up. Before he was called tosupper he had forgotten all about the man. 

In the cool of the evening the Burrages sat on the porch, rather crowdedfor the space was small. Mark, on the bottom step, smoked a pipe andwatched the eucalyptus leaves printed in pointed black groupings againstthe Prussian-blue sky. This was the time when the family, released fromits labors, sat back comfortably and listened to the favored one while hetold of the city by the sea. Old Man Burrage had a way of suddenly askingquestions about people he had known in the brave days of the Comstock, some dead now, others trailing clouds of glory eastward this many years. 

Tonight he was minded to hear about the children of George Alston whomMark had met. Long ago in Virginia City Old Man Burrage had often seenGeorge Alston, talked with him when he was manager of the Silver Queenand one of the big men of that age of giants. Mother piped upthere--_she_ wasn't going to be beaten. Many's the time she'd waited onGeorge Alston when he and the others would come riding over the Sierrason their long-tailed horses--a bunch of them together galloping intoPlacerville like the Pony Express coming into Sacramento. 

"And some of 'em, " said the old woman, rocking in easeful reminiscence, "would be as fresh with me as if I'd given 'em encouragement. But GeorgeAlston, never--he'd treat me as respectful as if I was the first lady inthe land. Halting behind to have a neighborly chat and the rest of themthrowin' their money on the table and off through the dining roomhollerin' for their horses. "

Her son, on the lower step, stirred as if uncomfortable. These memories, once prone to rouse a tender amusement, now carried their secret sting. 

"He was the real thing, " the farmer gravely commented. "There wasn't manylike him. "

Sadie, who was not interested in a man dead ten years ago, pushed theconversation on to her own generation. 

"His daughters are grown up. They must be young ladies now. "

Mark answered:

"Yes--Miss Chrystie's just eighteen, came of age this summer. The otherone's a few years older. "

"Up in Virginia, " said the farmer, "George Alston was a bachelor. Everywoman was out with her lariat after him but he give 'em all the slip. And afterward, when he went back East to see his folks, a little girl inhis home town got him--a girl a lot younger than him. She died after afew years. "

There was regret in his tone, not so much for the untimely demise of thelady as for the fact that George Alston had not found his mate inCalifornia. 

"What are they like?" said Sadie--"pretty?"

Mark had his back toward her. She could see the shape of it, pale in itslight-colored shirt, against the dark filigree of shrubs at the bottomof the steps. His answer sounded indifferent between puffs of his pipe:

"Yes, I guess so. Miss Chrystie's a big, fine sort of girl, with yellowhair and lots of color. She's nearly as tall as I am. The other, MissLorry--well, she's small. "

"They'd ought to have a heap of money, " said the farmer. "But when hedied I heard he hadn't cut up as rich as you'd think. Folks said he wastoo honest. "

"They've got enough--four hundred thousand each. "

"Well, well, well, " said Mother with a lazy laugh, "that'd do _me_. "

Her husband wouldn't have it. 

"Lord, that's small for him, " he mourned. "But I'm not surprised. Hewouldn't 'a' stood for what some of the rest of 'em did. "

"Is the house grand?" asked Sadie. 

"I suppose it is; it's big enough, lots of bay windows and rooms andpiazzas. It's on Pine Street, near town, with a garden round it full ofpalms and trees. "

"Do they have parties there?"

"No--at least I never heard of any. They're quiet sort of girls, don't goout much. Just live there with an old lady--Mrs. Tisdale--some relativeof their mother's. "

Sadie was disappointed. Having been led to expect so much from thesechildren of wealth, she felt cheated and was inclined to criticize. Sherather grumbled about their being so quiet. Mother disagreed:

"It sounds as if they were nice and genteel. Not the flashy, fashionablekind. And their mother dying when they were so young--that makes adifference. "

"It was Crowder got you acquainted with them?" said the old man. 

Charlie Crowder was a college chum of Mark's who had spent severalvacations on the ranch and who was regarded by the Burrages as a fount ofwisdom. Mark from the steps said yes, Crowder had taken him to the house. 

There was a pause after this, the parents sunk in gratified musings. Thefarmer, the simple, unaspiring male, saw no further than the fact of Marka guest in George Alston's home, but Mother had far-reaching fancies, glimpsed future possibilities. It was she who broke the silence, observing casually as if all doors must be open to her brilliant son, "I'm glad you know them, honey. There's no better companions for a youngman making his way, than quiet, refined girls. "

Sadie saw it as astonishing. She could hardly encompass the thought ofher brother, a few years ago working on the ranch like a hired man, nowmoving in the glittering spheres that she read about in the Sundayedition of the _Sacramento Courier. _

"Do you go there often?" she asked. 

"Oh, now and again. I haven't much time for calling. "

It was Mark who turned the conversation, difficult at first. The farmerwas tractable, but Mother and Sadie showed a tendency to cling to theAlston sisters. He finally diverted their attention by telling themabout Pancha Lopez, the greaser girl, who was the new leading woman atthe Albion Opera House, and a friend of Charlie Crowder's. Mother forgotthe Alstons. 

"You don't know _her_, do you, Mark?" she said uneasily. 

"No, Mother, I've only seen her act. "

The farmer stirred and rumbled warningly out of the darkness, "And you don't want to, son. A hard-working boy don't want to waste histime lallygaggin' round with actresses. "

When they dispersed for the night, Mother noticed that Mark wasabstracted, almost as if he was depressed. No one else saw it; eyes andtongues were heavy at bedtime on the ranch. Sadie, dragging up the stairsto be awake tomorrow at sunrise, might have been depressed but shewasn't. And the farmer and his wife, creaking about in their stuffy roomover the kitchen, their old bones stiff with fatigue, were elated. 

A part of the attic, lighted by one window in the gable, had been Mark'sden since he was eight. Here was the table with its hacked edge where hehad done his "homework" when he went to the public school up the road, his shelf of books, the line of pegs for his clothes, the rifle hisfather had given him when he shot fifty rabbits in one month. He lit thelamp and looked about, his eyes seeing it as mean and unlovely, and hisheart reproaching him that he should see it so. 

He sat down by the table and tried to read, but the book fell to hisknees and he stared, thought-tranced, at the pegs along the wall. What hethought of was the eldest Alston girl, Lorry, the one he had described as"small. " Usually he did not permit himself to do this, but tonight thetalk on the porch, his people's naive pleasure that he should know one sofine and far-removed, called up her image--dominant, imperious, not to bedenied. With the lamplight gilding his brooding face, the back-growingcrest of dark hair, the thick eyebrows, the resolute mouth, lip pressedon lip in an out-thrust curve, he sat motionless, seeing her against thebackground of her home. 

Details of its wealth came to him, costly elegancies of hersurroundings--the long parlor with its receding vista to a dining roomwhere silver shone grandly, rich, still curtains, pictures, statues; theChinese servants offering delicate food, coming at the touch of a bell, opening doors, carrying trays. It was not really as imposing as Markthought. There were people who sniffed at the Alstons' way of living, inthat queer, old-fashioned house far down town with the antiquated, lumbering furniture their father had bought when he married. But Mark hadnot the advantage of a comparative standard. Her setting gained itssplendor not only from his inexperience, but by comparison with his own. He saw their two homes in contrast, just as he saw her in contrast withthe other girls he had known, her fortune in contrast with his twentydollars a week. It brought him a new, sharp pain, pain that he shouldhave seen the difference, that he had acknowledged it, that what had onceseemed good and fitting now looked poor and humble. He loved his peopleand hugged the love to him with a fierce loyalty, but it could not hidethe fact that they were not as her people. It was the first jar to hisglad confidence, the first blow in his proud fight for power and place, the first time the thought of his poverty had come with a humiliatingsting. He was sore and angry with himself and would have liked to beangry with her. But he couldn't--she was so sweet!

CHAPTER IV

THE DERELICT

The tramp walked down the road, first on the grizzled grass, then, theearth under it baked to an iron hardness, back on the softened dust. Hepassed Tito Murano's cottage with dogs and chickens and little Muranossporting about the kitchen door and then noticed a diminishing of treesand a sudden widening of the prospect. From here the road dwindled to atrail that sloped to the marsh which spread before him. He sat down on abank by the roadside and looked at it. 

Under the high, unsullied heavens it lay like an unrolled map, green-painted, divisions and subdivisions marked by the fine tracings ofstreams. His eye traveled down its length to where in a line, ruler-straight, it met the sky, then shifted to its upper end, a jaggedpoint reaching to the hills. He had heard of it on the ranches where hehad been picking fruit--"It's easy traveling till you reach the tules, but it's some pull round _them_. " He gauged the distance round the point, and oaths, picturesque and fluent, came from him. He had sixteen dollarsin the lining of his coat, and for days as he tramped and worked, he sawthis hoard expended in San Francisco--a bath, clean linen, and a dinner, a dinner in a rôtisserie with a pint of red wine and a cigar. He saw nofurther than that--sixteen dollars' worth of comfort and good living. 

Now he was like a child deprived of its candy. He ached with fatigue, hisfeet were blistered, his throat dry as a kiln. Throwing off his hat, heleaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and cursed the marsh as if itwere a living thing, cursed it with a slow, unctuous zest, spat out uponit the venom and wrath that had accumulated within him. 

Seeing him thus, his hat off, sullen indifference replaced by a malignanimation, he was a very different being from the man who had accostedMark. A dangerous chap beyond doubt, dangerous from a dark soul and astored power of malevolence. His face, vitalized with rage, was handsome;a narrow forehead, the hair receding from the temples, a high-bridgednose with wide-cut nostrils, lips thin and fine, moving flexibly as theymuttered. It matched with what the voice had told Mark, was not the faceof the brutalized hobo or low-bred vagrant, but beneath its hair and dirtshowed as the mask of a man who might have fallen from high places. Evenhis curses went to prove it. They were not the dull profanities of theloafer, but were varied, colorful, imaginative, such curses as might comefrom one who had read and remembered. 

Suddenly they stopped and his glance deflected, alert andapprehensive--his ear had caught a low crooning of song. It came from asmall boy who, a little wooden boat in his hand, was advancing up theslope. This was Tito Murano, Junior, Tito's first-born, nine years old, softly footing it home after a joyous hour along the edge of the tules. 

Tito's mother was Irish, but the Latin strain had flowered forth strongin her son. He was bronze-brown, with a black bullet head and eyes likeshoe buttons. A pair of cotton trousers and a rag of shirt clothed himand his feet were bare and caked with mud. A happy day behind him and theprospect of supper made his heart light and he gave forth its joy infresh, bird-sweet carolings. 

He did not see the tramp and a sharp, "Hey, there, kid, " made him halt, startled, gripping the treasured boat against his breast. Then he madeout the man, and stood staring, poised to run. 

"Is there any way of getting across this infernal place?" The tramp'shand swept the prospect. 

Bashfulness held Tito speechless, and he stood rubbing one foot acrossthe other. 

The man's eyes narrowed with a curious, ugly look. 

"Are you deaf?" he said very quietly. 

A muttered negative came from the child. The question contained a qualityof scorn that he felt and resented. 

"I want to cross the marsh, get to the railway. What's the bestway to go?"

Tito's arm made a sweeping gesture round the head of the tules. 

"That. There's a trail. You go round. "

"Good God--that's _miles_. How do people go, the people here, when theywant to get to the other side?"

"That way. " Tito repeated his gesture. "But they don't go often, and theymostly rides. "

The man gave a groaning oath, picked up his hat, then cast it from himwith fury, and, planting his elbows on his knees, dropped his forehead onhis hands. Tito was sorry for him, and advanced charily, his heart fullof sympathy. 

"The duck shooters have laid planks, " he murmured encouragingly. 

The man raised his head. 

"Planks--where?"

Tito indicated the marsh. 

"All along. They lay 'em when they come to shoot and then they let 'emlay. Nobody don't ever go there 'cept the duck shooters. "

"You mean I can get across by the planks?"

Tito forgot his bashfulness and drew nearer. He was emboldened by thethought that he could help the tramp, give assistance as man to man. 

"_You_ couldn't. It's all mud and water, and turns too, like you wasgoin' round in rings. But _I_ could--I bin acrost, right over to theAriel Club. " He pointed to a small white square on the oppositeside. "That's where. The railroad's a ways beyont that, but it ain'tawful far. "

The man looked and nodded, then smiled, a slight curling of his lip, aslight contraction of the skin round his eyes. 

"If you show me the way I'll give you a quarter, " he said, turning thesmile on Tito. 

Tito did not like the smile; it suggested a dog's lifted lip whencontemplating battle. Also he had been forbidden to go into the marsh;some of the streams were deep, the mud treacherous. But a quarter hadseldom crossed his palm. He saw himself spending it at the crossroadsstore, and, tucking his boat up under his arm, said manfully:

"All right--I'll get you over before sundown. "

They started, the child running fleet-footed ahead, the man followingwith long strides. There was evidently a way and Tito knew it. His blackhead bobbed along in front, now a dark sphere glossed by the sunlight, now an inky silhouette against the white shine of water. There werecreeks to jump and pools to wade--the duck shooters' planks only spannedthe deep places--and the way was hard. 

Once the tramp stopped, surly-faced, and measured the distance to theAriel Club house. It seemed but little nearer. He told Tito so, and thechild, pausing to look back, cheered him with heartening phrases. But itwas a hard pull, crushing through the dense growth, staggering on theslippery ooze, and he began to mutter his curses again. Tito, hearingthem, made no reply, a little scared in the sun-swept loneliness with theswearing in his ears. 

Finally the man, floundering on a bank of mud, slipped and fell to hisknees. He groveled, his hands caked, and when he rose a fearful stream ofprofanity broke from him. Tito stopped, chilled, peering back between therushes. If it had been a rancher or one of the boys he would havelaughed. But he had no inclination to laugh at the staggering figure, with the haggard, sweat-beaded face and furious eyes. 

"I said it was long, but we're gettin' there. We're halfway acrost now, "his little pipe, mellow-sweet, was in strange contrast with what hadcome before. 

"You're a liar, a damnable liar. You've led me into the middle ofthis--place that you don't know any more of than I do. "

His eyes, ranging about in helpless desperation, saw, some distancebeyond, a rise of dry ground. The sight appeared to divert him, and hestood looking at it. He had the appearance of having forgotten Tito, andthe child, uneasy at this sudden stillness as he was ready to be atanything the tramp did, said with timid urgence:

"Say, come on. I got to get home for supper or I'll get licked. "

For answer the man moved in an opposite direction, to where the streamwidened. He saw there was deep water between him and the dry place, buthe wanted to get there, rest, smoke, unroll his blanket and sleep. Tito'suneasiness increased. 

"You're goin' the wrong way, " he pleaded. "You can't get round there, it's all water. "

Suddenly the man turned on him savagely. His brooding eyes widened andtheir look, a threatening glare, made the boy's heart quail. 

"Get out, " he shouted, "get out, I'm done with you. You're a fakir. "

Tito retreated, crushing the rushes under his naked feet, his faceextremely fearful. 

"But I was takin' you. I sure was--"

"Get out. You don't know anything about it. You're a liar. "

"I do. I was takin' you straight--and you promised me a quarter. "

"To hell with you and your quarter. Didn't you hear me say get out?"

The thought of the quarter gave Tito a desperate courage; his voice rosein a protesting wail:

"But I done half already--you're halfway acrost. You'd oughter give me adime. I've done more than a dime's worth. "

The tramp, with a smothered ejaculation, bent and picked up a bit ofiron, relic of some sportsman's passage. Tito saw the raised hand andducked, hearing the missile hurtle over his head and plop into the waterbehind him. It frightened him, but not so much as the man's face. Like asmall, terrified animal he bent and fled. The breaths came quick fromhis laboring breast, and as he ran, his head low, the rushes swayingtogether over his wake, sobs burst from him, not alone for fear, but forhis lost quarter. 

The sun was the dazzling core of a golden glow when he crept on to thedry ground, mud-soaked, tear-streaked, his wooden boat still in his hand. His terror was over and he padded home in deep thought, inventing a lie. For if his parents knew of his wanderings he would be beaten and sent tobed without supper. 

The tramp picked his way round to the stream that separated him from thedesired ground, slipped out of his clothes and, putting them in thebasket, plunged in the current. On the opposite bank he stood up, a lean, shining shape, the sunlight gilding his wet body, till it looked like astatue of brass. The bath refreshed him; he would eat some fruit he hadin his basket, take a smoke, and rest there for the night. 

Still wet, he pulled on his clothes, stretched out, and drawing a pearfrom the basket began to eat it. As he did so his glance explored theplace and brought up on a mark at the water's edge. It interested him, and still gnawing the pear, he crawled down to it--a footprint, large andas clearly impressed as if cast in plaster. Not far from it was atriangular indentation, its point driven deep--the mark of a boat's prow. 

Both looked fresh, the uppressed outlines of mud crisp and flakey, whichwould happen quickly under such a sun. Among his fellow vagrants he hadlearned a good deal about the tules, one fact, corroborated by the child, that at this season no one ever disturbed their loneliness. Stillsquatting he glanced about--at the foot of the rush wall behind him weretwo burnt matches. Men had recently been there, come in a boat, andsmoked; there were no traces of a fire. 

To perceptions used to the open dealings of an unobservant honesty, itwould have signified nothing. But to his, trained for duplicity, learnedin the ways of a world where concealments were a part of life, it carrieda meaning. His face took on an animal look of cunning, his movementsbecame alert and stealthy. Rising to his feet, he moved about, staring, studying, saw other footprints and then a break in the rushes at theback. He went there, parted the broken spears and came on a space wheresome were cut away, the ground disturbed, and still moist. 

Half an hour later, the sun, sending its last long shafts across themarsh, played on a strange picture--a tramp, white-faced, with tremblinghands, and round him, on the ground, about his sprawled legs, fallingfrom his shaking fingers, yellow in the yellow light, gold, gold, gold!

CHAPTER V

THE MARKED PARAGRAPH

The first half of the night he spent moving the money to the marshes'edge. Its weight was like the weight of millstones but disposed abouthim, in the basket, in the gunny sacks slung from his shoulders, in thenewspaper carried in his hands, he dragged it across. When he reached thebank he fell like one dead. Outstretched beside his treasure he lay onhis back and looked with half-closed eyes at the black vault and the coldsatiric stars. 

Before the dawn came he wrapped part of it in the paper and buried itamong the sedge; the rest he put in his basket and his pockets. Earlymorning saw him, an inconspicuous, frowsy figure, slouching up to a waystation on the line to Sacramento. 

In the train he found a newspaper left by a departed traveler, and on itsfront page, featured with black headlines, the latest news of the Knappand Garland holdup. After he had read it he sat very still. He knew whathe had found and was relieved. It cleared the situation if it added toits danger. But he was intrigued by the difficulty of disposing of themoney. To bank it was out of the question; he must rouse no curiosity andhe could give no references. To leave it on the marshes' edge wasimpracticable. He had heard of men who kept their loot buried, but hefeared the perils of a cache, to be dug and redug, ungettable, in asolitary place, hard to find and dangerous to visit. He must put itsomewhere not too remote, secure against discovery, where he could comeand go unnoticed and free from question. By the time the train reachedSacramento he had formulated a plan. 

He knew the city well, had footed the streets of its slums before he wentSouth. In a men's lodging house, kept by a Chinese, he engaged a room, left what gold he had there--he had to take his chance against theft--andin the afternoon took a down train to the marsh. He was back with therest of the money that night, buying a secondhand suitcase on his wayfrom the depot. In this he packed it, still in the canvas sacks, thenewspaper folded over it. He saw to it that the suitcase had a lock, andlead-heavy he laid it flat under the bed. 

The next morning he rose, nerved to a day of action. He was out early, his objective the small, mean stores of the poorer quarter. In these hebought shoes, the coarse brogans of the workman, and a hat, a rusty, sweat-stained Stetson. A barber's shop in a basement was his next pointof call. Here he was shaved and his hair cut. When he emerged into thelight of day the tramp had disappeared. The ragged growth gone, the proudalmost patrician character of his face was strikingly apparent. Itmatched so illy with his wretched clothes that passersby looked at him. He saw it and slunk along the walls, his hat on his brows, uneasily awareof the glances of women which usually warmed him like wine. At asecondhand dealer's, a dark den with coats and trousers hanging in layersabout the entrance, he bought a suit of clothes and an overcoat. Carryingthese in a bundle he went back to his room and put them on. 

The transformation was now complete. He studied himself in the blotchedand wavy mirror and nodded in grave approval. He might have been anartisan, a small clerk, or a traveling salesman routed through thecountry towns. 

Half an hour later saw him at the desk of the Whatcheer House. This was athird-rate men's hotel, a decent enough place where the transient malepopulation from the interior met the restless influx from the coast. Herefloated in, lodged a space, then drifted out a tide of men, seekers ofwork, of pleasure, of change, of nothing at all. The majority were of theworld's rovers impelled by an unquenchable wanderlust, but among themwere the industrious and steady, quartered in the city or shifting to anew center of activity. He registered as Harry Romaine of Vancouver anddescribed himself as a traveling man who would use Sacramento as a baseof operations. He took a room in the back--No. 19--said he would probablykeep it all winter and paid a month's rent in advance. 

By afternoon he had the money there and with it a chisel and hammer. Itwas intensely hot, the sun beating on the wall and sloping in through theone window. Complete silence from the rooms on either side reassured him, and in the scorching stillness he worked with a noiseless, capable speed. In one corner under the bed he pulled up the carpet and pried loose theboards. Some of the money went there, some below the pipes in thecupboard under the stationary washstand, the rest behind a piece of thebaseboard. 

Before he replaced the boards in the corner cache--the largest and leastdifficult to disturb--he glanced about for anything overlooked orforgotten for which the hole would be a convenient hiding-place. On thefloor, outspread and crumpled, lay the newspaper. The outer sheets werebrown and disintegrated from contact with the mud, but the two inner oneswere whole and clean. Probably it would be better to take no chances andhide it; someone might notice it and wonder how it came to be in such astate. He picked it up, looked it over, and saw it was the _SacramentoCourier_ of August 25. That would make it only three days old, the issueof the day before the holdup. If anything was needed to convince him thatthe cache was Knapp and Garland's this was it. He opened it on the tableto fold, brushing out the creases, when suddenly his hand dropped and hisglance became fixed. A marked paragraph had caught his attention. 

The light was growing dim and he took the paper to the window. Theparagraph was at the end of a column, was encircled by two curvedpencil strokes, and on the edge of clean paper below it was written, also in pencil, "Hello, Panchita. Ain't you the wonder. Your bestbeau's proud of you. "

He pulled a chair to the window, folded back the page and read themarked item. The column was headed "C. C. 's San Francisco Letter, " wasdated August 21, and was mainly concerned with social and business newsof the coast city. That part of it outlined by the pencil strokes ranas follows:

As to matters theatrical there's nothing new in sight, except that PanchaLopez--our Pancha--made a hit this week in "The Zingara, " the gypsyoperetta produced on Sunday night at the Albion. I can't tell much about"The Zingara"--maybe it was good and maybe it wasn't. I couldn't reckonwith anything but Pancha; she was the whole show. She's never doneanything so well, was as dainty as a pink, as brilliant as a hummingbird, danced like a fairy, and sang--well, she sang way beyond what she'sled us to expect of her. Can I say more? The public evidently agrees withme. The S. R. O. Sign has been out at the cozy little home of comic operaever since Sunday. C. C. , who can't keep away from the place, has seen somany dress shirt fronts and plush cloaks that he's rubbed his eyes andwondered if he hasn't made a mistake and it's the grand opera season comeearly with a change of dates. But he hasn't. Pacific and Van Ness avenuesare beginning to understand that we've got a little song bird right herein our midst that they can hear for half a dollar and who gives them morefor that than the Metropolitans do for a V. Saluda, Pancha! Here'slooking at you. Some day the East is going to call you and you're goingto make a little line of footsteps across the continent. But for oursakes postpone it as long as you can. Remember that you belong to us, that we discovered you and that we can't get on without you. 

He read it twice and then studied the penciled words, "Hello, Panchita!Ain't you the wonder. Your best beau's proud of you. " In the dying lighthe murmured them over as if their sound delighted him and as he murmureda slight, sardonic smile broke out on his face. 

His sense of humor, grim and cynical, was tickled. He, the picaroon, companion of rogues and small marauders, had seen many and diverse loveaffairs. On the shady bypaths he had followed, edging along the rim ofthe law, he had met all sorts of couples, men and women incomprehensiblyattracted, ill-assorted, mysterious, picturesque. This seemed to him oneof the most piquant combinations he had ever encountered--a bandit and acomic opera singer. It amused him vastly and he crooned over the paper, grinning in the dusk. The fellow had evidently marked the item andwritten his congratulations, intending to send it to her, then needed itto wrap round the money, and confident in the security of his cache, leftit there against his return. That thought increased his amusement, and helaughed, a low, smothered chuckle. 

It was dark and he rose and lit the lamp. Then he tore out the piece ofthe paper and put it in the pocket of his suitcase. The rest he foldedand placed in the hole under the money. As he knelt, fitting the boardsback, he thought of the singing woman, Pancha Lopez. The beloved of ahighwayman, with a Spanish name, he pictured her as a dark, flashingcreature, coarsely opulent and mature. It was evident that she toobelonged to the world of rogues and social pirates, and he laughed againas he saw himself, swept back by a turn of fate, into the lives of theoutlawed. He must see Pancha Lopez; she promised to be interesting. 

CHAPTER VI

PANCHA

A week later, at eleven at night, a large audience was crowding out ofthe Albion Opera House. If you know San Francisco--the San Francisco ofbefore the fire--you will remember the Albion. It stood on one of thosethoroughfares that slant from the main stem of Market Street near Lotta'sFountain. That part of the city is of dubious repute; questionable backwalls look down on the alley that leads to the stage door, and aftermidnight there is much light of electricity and gas and much unholy noiseround its darkened bulk. 

But that is not the Albion's fault. It did not plant itself in theTenderloin; it was the Tenderloin that grew. Since it first opened itsdoors as a temple of light opera--fifty cents a seat and a constantchange of bill--its patrons have been, if not fashionable, alwaysrespectable. Smoking was permitted, also the serving of drinks--the seatin front had a convenient shelf for the ladies' lemonade and thegentleman's beer--but even so, no one could say that a strict decorum didnot prevail in the Albion's audiences even as it did in the Albion'sproductions. 

A young man with a cheerful, ugly face stood in a side aisle, watchingthe crowd file out. He had a kindly blue eye, a merry thick-lipped mouth, and blonde hair sleeked back across his crown, one lock, detached fromthe rest, falling over his forehead. He had a way of smoothing back thislock with his palm but it always fell down again and he never seemed toresent it. Of all that pertained to his outward appearance, he wasindifferent. Not only his patience with the recalcitrant lock, but hisclothes showed it--dusty, carelessly fitting, his collar too large forhis neck, his cravat squeezed up into a tight sailor's knot and shiftedto one side. He was Charlie Crowder, not long graduated from Stanford andnow a reporter on the _Despatch_, where he was regarded with interest asa promising young man. 

His eye, exploring the crowd, was the journalist's, picking salientpoints. It noted fur collars and velvet wraps, the white gloss of shirtbosoms, women's hair, ridged with artificial ripples--more of that kindin the audience than he'd seen yet. "The Zingara" had made a hit; he'djust heard at the box office that they would extend the run through theautumn. It pleased him for it verified his prophecy on the first nightand it was a bully good thing for Pancha. 

He stepped out of a side entrance, edged through the throngs on thepavement, dove up an alley and reached the stage door. A single roundlamp burned over it and already dark shapes were issuing forth, mostlywomen, Cinderellas returned to their dingy habiliments. There was a greatchatter of feminine voices as they skirmished off, some in groups, somealone, some on the arms of men who emerged from the darkness withmuttered greetings. 

Crowder crossed the back of the large stage where supers were pullingscenery about; weights and ropes, forest edges, bits of sky and parlorceilings, hanging in layers from the flies. The brick wall at the backwas whitewashed and against it a line of men and girls passed scurryingto the exit, throwing remarks back and forth, laughing, pulling on theircoats. Some of them hailed him and got a cheery word in reply. Then, skirting the wings, he turned down a passage and brought up at a door onwhich a small star was drawn in chalk. He knocked, and a woman's voicecalled from inside:

"Who is it?"

"Your faithful press agent. "

The woman's voice answered:

"Enter Charlie, rear, smiling. "

He opened the door, went in. The place was the Albion's best dressingroom. It was small, with white-washed walls, and lighted by a gas jetinclosed in a wire shield. A mirror, its frame dotted with artificialflowers, bits of ribbon, notes and favors, surmounted the dressing table. This was a litter of paint pots, hair pins, toilet articles, powder rags, across which, like a pair of strayed snakes, lay two long braids of blackhair. A powerful scent of cosmetics and stale perfumery mingled with thefaint, thrilling breath of roses. 

Seated in front of the glass in a soiled red satin kimono embroidered instorks, was Pancha Lopez, leading woman of the Albion. She was wiping offher make-up, a large jar of cold cream on the table before her, a greaserag in her hand. The kimono, falling richly, outlined a thin, lithe body, flat-backed, muscular and supple. The make-up still on her face turnedher brown skin to a meerschaum pallor and the dusky brick-red of hercheeks to an unnatural rose. A long neck upheld a small, finely shapedhead, the hair now drawn back and twisted in a tight knot to which thetwo long braids had been pinned. The Indian strain in her revealed itselfin the flattened cheek-bones, the wide-cut, delicate nostrils and thesmall, high-set eyes as clearly black and white as if made of enamel. They were now outlined and elongated with lamp black which still clung toher lashes in flakes. She was twenty-two years old, and had been on thestage for six years. 

After a glance over her shoulder and a flashing smile she returned to herwork, pushing her hair still further off her forehead with one hand, andsweeping the greasy cloth over her face with the other. 

"Well, " said Crowder, standing beside her and looking at her reflection, "how's the baby-grand Patti tonight?"

"Fine!" She drew down her upper lip and slowly rubbed round her mouth, Crowder, as if fascinated, watching the process in the mirror. "Just sitdown on something. Hang up my costume and take that chair if there isn'tany other. I got to get this thing off before I can talk comfortably. "

Her costume, a glittering heap of red and orange, lay across a chair, the pile surmounted by an open cardboard box whence the heads of rosesprotruded from tissue paper. He feared to touch that, and findinganother chair against the wall, drew it to the side of the dressingtable and sat down. 

"Have you been in front?" she asked, rubbing along her jaw. 

"Yes, it's packed. But I only came in just before the curtain. How wasthe house?"

She threw a radiant look at him. 

"Ate it up, dearie. Couldn't get enough. Six encores for my Castanetsong. Oh, Charlie, " she dropped the hand with its rag to the edge of thetable and looked at him, solemnly earnest, "you don't know how Ifeel--you don't know. It's hard to believe and yet it's true. I can seethe future stretching up like a ladder, and me mounting, step by step, onrungs made of gold. "

Pancha Lopez, unlettered, almost illiterate, child of the mountains andthe ditches, wandering vagabond of the stage, would sometimes indulge inunexpected felicities of phrase. Her admirers said it was anotherexpression of that "temperament" with which she was endowed. Crowder, whoknew her better than most, set it down to the Indian blood. From thatwild blend had come all that lifted her above her fellows, her flashes ofdeep intelligence, her instinct for beauty, her high-mettled, invinciblespirit. He even maintained to his friend Mark Burrage--Mark was the onlyperson he ever talked her over with--that it was the squaw in her whichhad kept her pure, made her something more than "a good girl, " a proudvirgin, self-sufficing, untamable, jealous of her honor as a vestal. 

"That's what you ought to see, " he said in answer to her serious eyes. "Haven't I always said it? Didn't I tell you so up there in Portland whenwe first met and you were doing a turn between six saxaphone players anda bunch of trained cockatoos?"

She nodded, laughing, and returned to her rubbing. 

"You surely did, and fanned up the flame that was just a tiny sparkthen. Dear old press agent, I guess I'll have to change your name tothe Bellows. "

"A. 1. Have you read the last blast I've given out?" She shook her headand he thrust his hand into his overcoat pocket. "I've brought it along, though I thought your father might have sent it to you. "

"Pa's in the mountains. " Drawing down her upper lip she pressed on hercheeks with painted finger tips, scrutinizing her face in the mirror. "Ihaven't heard from him for weeks. He's off on the lode somewhere. "

"Then he hasn't seen it. It's the best I've done yet, and it's true, every word. "

He had drawn from his pocket a paper which he now opened. As he folded itback, Pancha took out her hairpins and shook down her hair. It extendedto her shoulders, a thick, curly bush, through which she pulled the combwith short, quick sweeps. 

"Read that, " said the young man and handed her the paper. "_SacramentoCourier_--'C. C's San Francisco Letter. '"

She took it and read while he watched her with twinkling eyes. They weregreat pals, these two; had been since they met in Portland, five yearsago. He was on his way to Stanford, and had seen her doing a singing anddancing act in a wretched vaudeville company. That vision of a girlhood, beset and embattled, the pitifulness of its acquired hardness, had calledto his western chivalry and made him her champion. Ever since he hadhelped and encouraged, his belief and friendship a spur to the ruthlessenergy, the driving ambition, that had landed her in the Albion sixmonths before. 

As she read she began to smile, then squeals of delight broke from her. 

"You old press agent!" she cried, hitting at him with the comb and stillreading, and then: "You pet, you precious pet!"

She finished on a little cry and cast the paper to the floor. 

"Oh, Charlie, oh, my good, _dear_ Charlie!" Her face was suddenly stirredwith an upswelling of emotion. No other man in her hard and sordidexperience had been to her what Charlie Crowder had, never a lover, always a friend. 

"Now, Pancha, " he said pleadingly, "don't look at me like that or I'llburst into sobs. "

She rose and, putting her hands on his shoulders, kissed him on theforehead with a sexless tenderness. Her eyes were wet and to hide it sheturned to where her costume lay on the chair. Crowder had nothing tosay; these bursts of gratitude from his friend made him embarrassed. 

"Look, " she cried suddenly and snatched up the box of roses, "even aJohnny at the stage door. That's going some, " and thrusting her handinto the box, she plucked up by their heads a handful of blossoms. Theirpure sweet breath flowed out on the coarse scents with which the smallplace reeked. 

Crowder affected a shocked surprise. 

"What's this? A lover at last and I kept in ignorance. "

"This is his first appearance, not a yap till tonight. And look at theyap. " She dropped the box and took out from under the paper a card whichshe held toward him, "Some style about _that_ yap. "

It was the square of pasteboard furnished by the florist. On it waswritten in a small, upright hand, "Let me offer you these roses, sweet asyour voice, delicate as your art, and lovely as yourself. An admirer. "

Crowder raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in exaggeratedamazement. 

"Well, well, well! I must look into this. Who _is_ the gentleman ?"

"I haven't a guess. " She took the card and dwelt on it delightedly. "Ain't it stylish writing--scratchy and yet you can read it? And thewords, they're almost poetry. I never got flowers before with a sentimentas swell as that. "

"Don't you honest know who it is?" said Crowder, impressed by the floweryprofusion of "the sentiment. "

"Not me. Jake brought 'em in after the second curtain. They were left bya messenger boy. Whoever he is he certainly does things in a classy way. Maybe he's a newspaper man to write like that. "

Crowder opined he was not. He could hardly imagine one of hisfellows--even secure in his anonymity--permitting his pen suchflorid license. 

"When you break through the dark secret let me know. Then I'll come roundand cast my searchlight eye over him and see if he's a proper companionfor little Panchita. "

"No fear, " she cried, throwing the card back in the box. "LittlePanchita's got a searchlight eye of her own. Believe _me_, it's a good, trained, old eye. Now skiddoo. I've got to slip into my togs and then mefor home and a glass of milk. If he comes to the surface with anothergasp I'll tell you. "

When he had gone she dropped the kimono and put on a blouse and skirt, both old and shabby. Her actions were quick and harmonious, nounnecessary moves made, the actions of one trained to an economy of timeand labor. On a wall hook behind a curtain she hung her gypsy dress, touching it lightly, flicking off dust, settling the folds. Poverty hadtaught her this care, as ambition was teaching her a thrift that made herassociates call her mean. 

What they thought was a matter of indifference to her. Before she hadreached the Albion she knew herself superior and had plans that stretchedfar. About these she was secret. Not one, not even her father, knew theamount of money she had saved, or that, when she had accumulated enough, she intended going East and to Europe. She felt her powers and dreamed ofa future on stages far finer than the Albion's. Once she had thought herfather could help her. Two years ago he _had_ sold a prospect for fourthousand dollars, but he had lost the money in an unlucky mining venturein Oregon. That ended all hopes of his assistance. Even if he did makeanother strike he needed what he got for himself; he was getting on, hewanted to buy a ranch and settle down. If she was to reach the summit ofher desire--and she would reach it or die--she must do it herself. So sheworked doggedly, nursed her voice, hoarded her earnings and said nothing. 

She was ready to leave, her hat, a little black velvet toque, pulled downover her hair, a long shaggy ulster clothing her to the ankles. As shewent to the dressing table to put out the light she saw her image in theglass and paused, eyeing it. So far her appearance had had no value forher save as a stage asset. Now she looked at herself with a new, criticalinterest. Behind the footlights she was another person, blossomed into anexotic brilliance, took on fire and beauty with the music and excitement. Might not a man seeing her there be disappointed when he met her as shereally was? She studied her face intently, viewing it at differentangles, judging it by the standards of her world. By these she found itwanting, and with a wistful sigh she stretched out her hand and turnedoff the light. 

It was nearly midnight when she walked down the side streets that led tothe car line which took her home. Overhead the fog hung, covering thecity with a luminous rack which here and there parted, showing segmentsof dark, star-dotted sky. Passing men looked at her, some meeting adefiant stare, others a face so chastely unresponsive that they avertedtheir eyes as if rebuked. On the car she took an outside seat, for sheloved the swift passage through the night with the chill air on her face. The grip man knew her and smiled a greeting, and as she mounted the stepshe answered cheerily. Now and then as the car stopped he spoke to her, leaning over his lever, and she twisted round to reply, friendly, frank, intimate. Until she came to San Francisco his class was the best she hadever known. 

It was part of her economy to live in the Mission. She had two roomsthere in the old Vallejo Hotel, a hostelry once fashionable, now fallenon dreary days. It fronted on a wide street where new business buildingsrose beside gabled houses, detached and disconsolate in the midst ofwithered lawns. The Vallejo was a connecting link between these samplesof the new and the old. It belonged to the ornate bay-windowed period ofthe seventies. Each of its "front suites" had the same proud bulge, andits entrance steps were flanked by two pillars holding aloft ground glassglobes upon which its name was painted in black. Tall buildings wereunknown in those days; the Vallejo boasted only three stories and itsarchitect had never dreamed of such an effete luxury as an elevator. Built on the filled-in ground of Mission Creek, it had developed atendency to sag in the back, and when you walked down the oil-clothedhall to the baths, you were conscious of a list to starboard. 

The Vallejo patrons did not mind these drawbacks, or if they did, thoughtof the low rates and were uncomplaining. All things considered, you got agood deal for your money. The place was quiet and respectable; even inits downfall it clung desperately to its traditions. It took notransients, required a certain standard of conduct in its lodgers, andstill maintained a night clerk in the office of its musty front hall. 

Pancha thought it quite regal. If it was a proud elevation for her toreign at the Albion, it was a corresponding one for her to have two roomsto herself in a real hotel. As she ascended the stairs--her apartment wason the second floor--she looked about her, taking in satisfactorydetails, the worn moquette carpet, the artificial palm on a pedestal inthe corner, the high, gilt-topped mirror at the turn on the stairs. Itall seemed to her what she would have called "refined"; she need never beashamed to have a visitor come there. 

In her parlor she lit the light and surveyed her surroundings with anincreasing satisfaction. It was a startlingly ugly room, but she thoughtit a bower of elegance. What gave her authority on the stage, what hadalready lifted her above the mass, seemed to fall from her with hercostume. That unwavering sense of beauty and grace, that instinctivetaste which lent her performance poetry and distinction, left her at thewings. Now her eye dwelt, complacent, on the red plush chairs, thecoarse lace curtains, the sofa pillows of etched leather and dissonantcolors, the long mirror between the windows, and each and all receivedher approval. As she had thought on the stairs, she thought again--noone would be ashamed to receive a visitor, no matter how stylish, insuch a room. 

She put her roses in a vase and then fetched a bottle of milk from thewindow sill and a box of crackers from the bureau drawer. Setting theseon the marble-topped table beside the droplight she sat and ate. It wastoo cold to take off her coat and from its pocket she drew the card thathad come with the flowers. As she sipped and munched, the shadows of theroom hovering on the light's circular edge, she read over the words, murmuring them low, her voice lingering on them caressingly. 

It was the first knock at the door of her dreams, the first prismatic rayof romance that had penetrated the penumbra of brutal realities in whichshe had lived. 

CHAPTER VII

THE PICAROON

The Argonaut Hotel--all San Franciscans will remember it--had, like theVallejo, started life with high expectations and then declined. But notto so complete a downfall. Fashion had left it, but it still did a goodbusiness, was patronized by commercial travelers and old customers fromthe interior, and had a solid foundation of residentials, married couplesbeaten by the servant question and elderly men with no ties. Its positionhad been against it--on that end of Montgomery Street where the landbegins to rise toward Telegraph Hill, with the city's made ground behind, and in front "the gore" where Dr. Coggeswell's statue used to stand. People who lived there were very loyal to it--not much style, butcomfort, quiet and independence. 

Three days before the events in the last chapter a man entered its officeand asked for rooms. He was an impressive person, of the kind who usuallywent to the Palace or the St. Francis. Ned Murphy, the clerk, sized himup as an Easterner or maybe a foreigner. There was somethingforeign-looking about him--you couldn't just tell what; it might be theway he wore his hair, brushed back straight from his forehead, or anundemocratic haughtiness of bearing. He looked as if he was used to thebest, and he acted that way; had to be shown four suites before he wassatisfied and then took the most expensive, second floor front, two roomsand bath, and you could see he didn't think much of it. Ned Murphy livedup to him with an unbroken spirit, languidly whistled as he slid theregister across the counter, looked up the hall with a bored air, andthen winked at the bell boy holding the bags. But when the stranger hadfollowed the boy up the stairs--the Argonaut had no elevator--he pulledthe register round and eagerly read the entry--"Boyé Mayer, New York. " Aforeign name all right; you couldn't fool him. 

He told the switchboard girl, who had been taking it all in from herdesk, and she slid over to size up the signature. She thought he mightn'tbe foreign--just happened to have that sort of name--he didn't talk withany dialect. When the bell boy came back they questioned him, but he wasgrouchy--feller'd only given him a dime. And say, one of them suit caseswas all battered and wore out, looked like the kind the hayseeds havewhen they come up from the country. 

In his room the man went to the window, hitched back the lace curtainsand threw up the sash. Life in the open had made these shut-in placesstifling, and he drew in the air with a deep relish. Evening was falling, a belated fog drifting in, wreathing in soft whorls over the hills, feeling its way across their summits and through their hollows. It madethe prospect depressing, everything enveloped in a universal, densewhiteness. He surveyed it, frowning--the looming shapes of the high landbeyond, the line of one-story hovels sprawled on the gore. To the rightthe street slanted upward toward Telegraph Hill whence smaller streetswould decline to the waterfront and the Barbary Coast. He knew thatsection well and smiled a little as he thought of it and of himself, aragged vagrant, exploring its byways. 

His thoughts stopped at that memory--the lowest point of his fall--hungthere contemplative and then turned backward. They passed beyond hisarrival in California, his days of decay before that, the first gradualdisintegration, back over it all to the beginning. 

Thirty-six years ago he had been born in New York, a few months afterthe arrival of his parents. They were Austrians, his father an officerin the Royal Hungarian Guards, his mother a dancer at the Grand OperaHouse in Vienna. When Captain Ruppert Heyderich, of a prosperousViennese family, had, in a burst of passionate chivalry, married KathiMayer, end coryphée on the second row, he had deserted the army, hiscountry and his world and fled to America. Captain Heyderich had notcommitted so radical a breach of honor and convention without somethingto do it on, and the early part of the romance had moved smoothly in afitting environment. Their only child, Lothar, could distinctly recalldays of affluence in an apartment on the Park. He had had a governess, he had worn velvet and furs. 

Then a change came; the governess disappeared, also the velvet and furs, and they began moving. There was a period when to move was a feature oftheir existence, each habitat showing a decrease in size and splendor. Lothar was nine, a lanky boy with his hair worn _en brosse, _ in baggyknickerbockers and turn-over white collars, when they were up on the WestSide in six half-lighted rooms, with a sloppy Hungarian servant to do allthe work. That was the time when his father taught languages and hismother dancing. But _he_ went to a private school. Captain Heyderichnever got over his European ideas. 

Those lean years came to a sudden end; Captain Heyderich's mother died inVienna and left him a snug little fortune. They moved once more, but thistime it was a hopeful, jubilant move, also a long one--to Paris. Theysettled there blithely in an apartment on the Rue Victor Hugo, Lothar, placed at a Lycée, coming home for weekends. He remembered the apartmentas ornate and over-furnished, voluble guests coming and going, a greatmany parties, his mother, elaborately dressed, always hurrying off tomeet people in somebody's else house or hurrying home to meet them in herown. Several times Austrian relations visited them, and Lothar had alively recollection of a fight one Sunday evening, when an uncle, alarge, bearded man, had accused his mother of extravagance and she hadflown into a temper and made a humiliating scene. 

He was seventeen when his father died, and it was discovered that verylittle money was left. Some of the relations came from Vienna and therewas a family conclave at which it was suggested to Lothar that he returnto Vienna with them and become a member of the clan. Separation from hismother was a condition and he refused. He did this not so much from loveof her as from fear of them. They represented a world of which he wasalready shy, of high standards, duties rigorously performed, pledges tothrift and labor. Life with Kathi was more to his taste. He loved itseasy irresponsibility, its lack of routine, its recognition of amusementas a prime necessity. He delivered his dictum, his mother wept triumphanttears, and the relations departed washing their hands of him. 

After that they went to London and Lothar made his first attempts atwork. They were fitful; the grind of it irked him, the regular hours worehim to an ugly fretfulness. He tried journalism--could have made hisplace for he was clever--but was too unreliable, and dropped to a spacewriter, drifting from office to office. In his idle hours, which weremany, he gambled. That was more to his taste, done in his own way, at hisown time--no cramping restrictions to bind and stifle him. He was oftenlucky and developed a passion for it. 

He was twenty-three when they returned to New York, Kathi having beggedsome more money from Vienna. She was already a worn, old witch of awoman, dressed gayly in remnants of past grandeur and always paintingher face. She and her son held together in a partnership strained andrasping, but unbreakable, united by the mysterious tie of blood and adeep-rooted moral resemblance. They led a wandering life, followingraces, hanging on the fringes of migrating fashion, sometimes hidingfrom creditors, then reestablished by a fortunate coup. But in thosedays he was still careful to pick his steps along the edges of the law, just didn't go over though it was perilous balancing. When she died hewas relieved and yet he grieved for her. He felt free, no longersubject to her complaints and bickerings, but in that freedom there wasa chill, empty loneliness--no one was beside him in that gingerlypicking of his steps. 

It was when he was twenty-seven--not quite lost--that the news came fromVienna of an unexpected legacy. His uncle, dying at the summit of asuccessful career, had relented and left him fifty thousand dollars. Heassured himself he would be careful--poverty had taught him--and at firsthe tried. But the habits of "the years that the locust had eaten" weretoo strong. Augmented by several successful speculations it lasted himfor six years. At the end of that time he was ruined, worn in body, warped in mind, his mold finally set. 

After that he ceased to pick his way along the edges of the law, heslipped over. He followed many lines of endeavor, knew the back watersand hinterlands of many cities, ceased to be Lothar Heyderich and wasknown by other names. It was in Chicago, the winter before this storybegins, that an attack of pneumonia brought him to the public ward of ahospital. Before his discharge, a doctor--a man who had noticed and beeninterested in him--gave him a word of warning:

"A warm climate--no more lake breezes for you. If you stay here and keepon swinging round the circle it won't be long before you swing back hereto us--swing back to stay. Do you get me?"

He did, his face gone gray at this sudden vision of the end of allthings. The doctor, in pity for what he was now and evidently once hadbeen, gave him his fare to California. 

It had been hell there. The climate had done its work, he was well, buthe had felt himself more a pariah than ever before. He had seemed like afly crawling over a glass shield under which tempting dainties areclearly visible and maddeningly unattainable. A man wanted money inCalifornia--with money could lead the life, half vagabondage, half lazyluxury, that was meat to his longing. Never had he been in a place thatallured him more and that held him more contemptuously at arm's length. 

He had sunk to his lowest depth in this tantalizing paradise, tramped thestreets of cattle towns, herded with outcasts lower than himself. In LosAngeles he had washed dishes in a cafeteria, in Fresno polished thebrasses in a saloon. And all around him was plenty, an unheeding prodigalluxuriance, Nature rioting in a boundless generosity. Her message came tohim from sky and earth, from sweep of flowered land, from emboweredvillage and thronging town--that life was good, to savor it, plunge init, live it to the full. At times he felt half mad, struggling to existin the midst of this smiling abundance. 

When he began that upward march through the state he had no purpose, hismind was empty as a dried nut, the terrible lethargy of the tramp wasinvading him. From down-drawn brows he looked, morose, at a world whichrefused him entrance, and across whose surface he would drift aimless asa leaf on the wind. Then, the strength regained by exercise and air, thefew dollars made by fruit picking, gave a fillip to his languishingspirit and an objective point rose on his vision. He would go to SanFrancisco--something might turn up there--and with his hoarded money buycleanliness and one good meal. It grew before him, desirable, dreamed of, longed for--the bath, the restaurant, the delicate food, the bottle ofwine. He was obsessed by it; the deluge could follow. 

The wind, blowing through the open casement, brought him back to thepresent. The night had fallen, the street below a misty rift, its lightssmothered in swimming vapor. There was brightness about it, blotted andobscured but gayly intentioned, even the sheds on the gore sending outgolden gushes that suffused the milky currents with a clouded glow. Helighted the gas and looked at his watch--nearly seven. He would go outand dine--that dinner at last--and afterward drop in at the Albion andsee Pancha Lopez, "the bandit's girl. "

CHAPTER VIII

THOSE GIRLS OF GEORGE'S

The Alstons were finishing dinner. From over the table, set with theglass and silver that George Alston had bought when he came down fromVirginia City, the high, hard light of the chandelier fell on the threefemales who made up the family. It was devastating to Aunt EllenTisdale's gnarled old visage--she was over seventy and for several yearsnow had given up all tiresome thought processes--but the girls were sosmoothly skinned and firmly modeled that it only served to bring out therounded freshness of their youthful faces. 

The Alstons were conservative, clung to the ways of their parents. Thiswas partly due to inheritance--mother and father were New Englanders--andpartly to a reserved quality, a timid shyness, that marked Lorry who, asAunt Ellen ceased to exert her thought processes and relapsed into apeaceful torpor, had assumed the reins of government. They conformed tonone of those innovations which had come from a freer intercourse withthe sophisticated East. The house remained as it had been in theirmother's lifetime, the furniture was the same and stood in the sameplaces, the table knew no modern enhancement of its solidly handsomefittings. Fong, the Chinese cook--he had been with George Alston beforehe married--ruled the kitchen and the two "second boys. " No womenservants were employed; women servants had not been a feature of domesticlife in Bonanza days. 

That was why the house was lit by chandeliers instead of lamps, that waswhy dinner was at half past six instead of seven, that was why GeorgeAlston's daughters had rather "dropped out. " They would not move with thetimes, they would not be brought up to date. Friends of their mother'shad tried to do it, rustled into the long drawing-room and masterfullyattempted to assist and direct. But they had found Lorry unresponsive, listening but showing no desire to profit by the chance. They asked herto their houses--replenished, modern, object lessons to rich younggirls--and hinted at a return of hospitalities. It had not been asuccess. She was disappointing, no snap, no go to her; the young men whosat beside her at dinner were bored, and the house on Pine Street had notopened its doors in reciprocal welcome. By the time she was twenty theyshrugged their shoulders and gave her up--exactly like Minnie, onlyMinnie had always had George to push her along. 

As the women friends of Minnie did their duty, the men friends ofGeorge--guardians of the estate--did theirs. They saw to it that theinvestments were gilt-edged, and the great ranch in Mexico that Georgehad bought a few years before his death was run on a paying basis. Atintervals they asked their wives with sudden fierceness if they hadcalled on "those girls of George's, " and the wives, who had forgotten allabout it, looked pained and wanted to know the reason for such anunnecessary question. Within the week, impelled by a secret sense ofguilt, the ladies called and in due course Lorry returned the visits. Shesuffered acutely in doing so, could think of nothing to say, waspainfully conscious of her own dullness and the critical glances thatwandered over her best clothes. 

But she did not give much thought to herself. That she lacked charm, wasthe kind to be overlooked and left in corners, did not trouble her. Since her earliest memories--since the day Chrystie was born and hermother had died--she had had other people and other claims on her mind. Her first vivid recollection--terrible and ineffaceable--was of herfather that day, catching her to him and sobbing with his face pressedagainst her baby shoulder. It seemed as if the impression made then hadextended all through her life, turned her into a creature of poignantsympathies and an unassuagable longing to console and compensate. She hadnot been able to do that for him, but she had been able to love--breakher box of ointment at his feet. 

From that day the little child became the companion of the elderly man, her soft youth was molded to suit his saddened age, her deepest desirewas a meeting of his wishes. Chrystie, whose birth had killed hermother, became their mutual joy, their shared passion. Chrystie-worshipwas inaugurated by the side of the blue and white bassinet, the nurserywas a shrine, the blooming baby an idol installed for their devotion. When George Alston died, Lorry, thirteen years old, had dedicatedherself to the service, held herself committed to a continuance of therites. He had left her Chrystie and she would fulfill the trust even ashe would have wished. 

Probably it was this enveloping idolatry that had made Christie so unlikeparents and sister. She was neither retiring nor serious, but social andpleasure-loving, ready to dance through life as irresponsibly enjoying asa mote in a sunbeam. And now Lorry had wakened to the perplexedrealization that it was her affair to provide the sunbeam and she did notknow how to do it. They were rich, they had a fine house, but nothingever happened there and it was evident that Chrystie wanted things tohappen. It was a situation which Lorry had not foreseen and before whichshe quailed, feeling herself inadequate. That was why, at twenty-three, alittle line had formed between her eyebrows and her glance dweltanxiously on Chrystie as an obligation--her great obligation--that shewas not discharging worthily. 

The glare of the chandelier revealed the girls as singularlyunlike--Lorry--her full name was Loretta--was slender and small withnut-brown hair and a pale, pure skin. The richest note of color in herface was the rose of her lips, clearly outlined and smoothly pink. Shehad "thrown back" to her New England forbears. On the elm-shadedstreets of Vermont villages one often sees such girls, fragile, finelyfeminine, with no noticeable points except a delicate grace andserenely honest eyes. 

Chrystie was all California's--tall, broad-shouldered, promising futureopulence, her skin a warm cream deepening to shades of coral, her hair ablonde cloud, hanging misty round her brows. She was as unsubtle as achromo, as fragrantly fresh as a newly wakened baby. Her hands, large, plump, with flexible broad-tipped fingers, were ivory-colored andsatin-textured, and her teeth, narrow and slightly overlapping, would godown to the grave with her if she lived to be eighty. Two months beforeshe had passed her eighteenth birthday and was now of age and inpossession of more money than she knew how to spend. She was easilyamused, overflowing with good nature and good spirits as a healthy puppy, but owing to her sheltered environment and slight contact with the worldwas, like her sister, shy with strangers. 

The meal was drawing to its end when the doorbell rang. 

"A visitor, " said Chrystie, lifting her head like a young stag. Then sheaddressed the waiting Chinaman, "Lee, let Fong open the door, I wantmore coffee. "

Lee went to fetch the coffee and direct Fong. Everybody in the housealways did what Chrystie said. 

Aunt Ellen laid her old, full-veined hand on the table and pushed herchair back. 

"Maybe it isn't a visitor, " she said, looking tentatively at Lorry--shehated visitors, for she had to sit up. "Do you expect someone?"

Lorry shook her head. She rarely expected anyone; evening callers weregenerally school friends of Chrystie's. 

Fong, muttering, was heard to pass from the kitchen. 

"I do hope, " said Christie, "if it's some horrible bore Fong'll havesense enough to shut them in the reception room and give us a chanceto escape. "

Chrystie, like Aunt Ellen, was fond of going to bed early. She had triedto instruct Fong in an understanding of this, but Fong, having beentrained in the hospitable ways of the past, could not be deflected intomore modern channels. 

In his spotless white, his pigtail wound round his head, his feet inthick-soled Chinese slippers, he passed up the hall to the front door. Another chandelier hung there but in this only one burner was lit. Atfive in winter and at six in summer Fong lit this as he had done for thelast twenty-four years. No one, no matter what the argument, could makehim light it any earlier, any later, or turn the cock at a lesser orgreater angle. 

The visitor was Mark Burrage, and seeing this Fong broke into smiles andfriendly greeting:

"Good evening, Mist Bullage--Glad see you, Mist Bullage. Fine night, Mist Bullage. "

Fong was an old man--just how old nobody knew. For thirty-five years hehad served the Alstons, had been George Alston's China boy in VirginiaCity, and then followed him, faithful, silent, unquestioning to SanFrancisco. There he had been the factotum of his "boss's" bachelorestablishment, and seen him through his brief period of marriedhappiness. On the day when Minnie Alston's coffin had passed through thefront door, he had carefully swept up the flower petals from the parlorcarpet, his brown face inscrutable, his heart bleeding for his boss. 

Now his devotion was centered on the girls; "Miss Lolly and Miss Clist, "he called them. He ruled them and looked out for their welfare--refusedto buy canvasbacks till they fell to the price he thought proper, economized on the kitchen gas, gave them costly presents on the New Year, and inquired into the character of every full-grown male who crossedtheir threshold. 

Mark Burrage he liked, found out about him through the secret channels ofinformation that make Chinatown one of the finest detective bureaus inthe land, and set the seal of his approval on the young man's visits. Hewould no more have shown him into the reception room and gone to see if"Miss Lolly and Miss Clist" were receiving, than he would have permittedthem to change the dinner hour. 

"You bin away, Mist Bullage, " he said, placing the card the young mangave him on the hall table--cards were only presented in the case ofstrangers. 

"How did you know that?" Mark asked, surprised. 

Fong's face suggested intense, almost childish amusement. 

"I dunno--I hear some place--I forget. "

"I've been up in Sacramento County with my people--maybe Crowdertold you. "

"Maybe--I not good memly, I get heap old man. " He made a move for theparlor door, his face wrinkled with his innocent grin. "Miss Lolly andMiss Clist here; awful glad see you, " and he threw the door open. 

Mark took a deep breath and strode forward, pulling his cuffs over hishands, which at that moment seemed to him to emerge from his sleeveslarge and unlovely as two hams. The place always abashed him, its soberair of wealth, its effortless refinement, its dainty feminine atmosphere. No brutal male presence--one never thought of Chinese servants asmen--seemed ever to have disturbed with a recurring, habitual foot itsalmost cloistral quietude. Now with memories of his own home fresh in hismind, dinner in the kitchen, the soiled tablecloth, the sizzling pans onthe stove, he felt he had no place there and was an impostor. Theirgreeting increased his discomfort. They were so kind, so hospitable, making him come into the dining room and take a cup of coffee. It was anuprush of that angry loyalty, that determination to hold close to hisown, which made him say as soon as he was seated, "I've been home for two weeks. "

"Home?" said Lorry gently. 

And, "Where _is_ your home?" came from Aunt Ellen, as if she had justrecognized the fact that he must have one somewhere but had never thoughtabout it before. 

The sound of his voice, gruff as a day laborer's after these flute-sweettones, increased his embarrassment. Nevertheless he determined that hewould tell them about his home. 

"Up in Sacramento County not far from the tules. My father's a rancher, has a little bit of land there. "

"Yes, Charlie Crowder told us, " said Lorry. She didn't seem to noticethe "little bit of land, " it was just as if he'd said four or fivethousand acres and described a balconied house with striped awnings andcushioned chairs. 

He cast a glance of gratitude toward her, met her eyes and dropped hisown to his cup. There they encountered his hand, holding the coffeespoon, the little finger standing out from the others in a tricksy curve. With an inward curse he straightened it, sudden red dyeing his face tothe temples. He began to hate himself and didn't know how to go on. 

Chrystie unexpectedly came to the rescue. 

"Sacramento County, " she exclaimed with sudden animation, "not far fromthe tules! There was a holdup round there two or three weeks ago. I readit in the papers. "

Aunt Ellen moved restlessly. She wanted to get to her chair in thedrawing-room. 

"Holdup?" she murmured. "They're always having holdups somewhere. "

"Not like this, " said Chrystie. "It was a good one--Knapp andGarland--and they shot Wells Fargo's messenger. "

"It was while I was there, " said Mark, "up toward the foothills aboveour ranch. "

The young ladies were immensely interested. They wanted to hear all aboutit and moved into the parlor to be settled and comfortable. They tried tomake Mark sit in a massive, gold-trimmed armchair, but he had his witsabout him by this time and took a humbler seat beside Lorry. Aunt Ellensank into her rocker with a sigh of achievement and Chrystie perched onthe piano stool. Then he told them the story, forgetting his bashfulnessunder the spell of their attentive eyes. 

"Why can't they catch them, " said Chrystie, "if they know their names?"

He couldn't help laughing at that. 

"Why, of course they have other names, " Lorry explained. "They don't goabout as Knapp and Garland. "

"But people must see them, " Chrystie insisted, "somebody must know whatthey look like. "

Mark had to straighten it out for her. 

"Their friends do--ranchers up in the hills, and their pals in thetowns. But the sheriffs and the general public don't. When they're outfor business they cover their faces, tie handkerchiefs or gunny sacksround them. "

Chrystie shuddered delightedly. 

"How awful they must be! I'd love to be held up just to see them. "

Mark and Lorry looked at one another and smiled, as age and experiencesmile at the artlessness of youth. It was an interchange of mutualunderstanding, a flash of closer intimacy, and as such lifted the youngman to sudden heights. 

"Where do they put the money?" said Aunt Ellen, her thoughtprocesses, under the unusual stimulus of a conversation on bandits, stirred to energy. 

"That's what we'd like to know, Mrs. Tisdale. They have a cache somewherebut nobody's been able to find it. I saw the sheriff before I left and_he_ thinks it's up in the hills among the chaparral. "

"Is the messenger dead?" asked Lorry. 

"Oh, no--he's getting on all right. They don't shoot to kill, just puthim out of business for the time being. "

"That's merciful, " Aunt Ellen announced in a sleepy voice. 

Chrystie, finding no more delicious shudders in the subject, twirledround on the stool and began softly picking out notes on the piano. For aspace Mark and Lorry talked--it was about the ranch near thetules--rather dull as it came to Chrystie through her picking. The youngman kept looking at Lorry's face, then dropping his glance to the floor, abashed before the gentle attention of her eyes, fearful his own mightsay too much. He thought it was just her sweetness that made her askabout his people, but everything about Mark Burrage interested her. Hadhe guessed it he would have been as much surprised as she had she knownthat he thought her beautiful. 

Presently Chrystie's notes took form and became a tinkling tune. Shetried it over once then whirled round on the stool. 

"There--I've got it! Listen. Isn't it just like it, Lorry?"

Lorry immediately ceased talking and listened while the tune ran ahalting course through several bars. 

"Like what?" she said. "I don't know what it's meant to be. "

"Oh!" Chrystie groaned, then shook her head at Mark. "Trust yourrelations to take down your pride. Why, it's the Castanet song from 'TheZingara!' Tum-tum-tum, tum-tum-tum, " and she began swaying her body intime, humming an air and banging out the accompaniment, "'With mycastanets, with my castanets. ' That's exactly the way it goes only Idon't know the words. " She whirled again to Mark. "It's the most_delicious_ thing! Have you seen it?"

He hadn't, and Chrystie sank together on the stool in reproachfulsurprise. 

"Oh, Mr. Burrage, you _must_ go. Don't lose a minute, this very night. "

Lorry breathed an embarrassed "Chrystie!"

"I didn't mean _that_ and he knows it. I mean the soonest night _after_tonight. We went yesterday and even Aunt Ellen loved it. Didn't you, Aunt Ellen?"

Aunt Ellen, startled from surreptitious slumber, gave an unnaturallyloud assent to which Chrystie paid no attention. 

"It's the new opera at the Albion and Pancha Lopez is--" She threw outher hands and looked at the ceiling, words inadequate. 

"She's never done anything so good before, " Lorry said. 

"All in red and orange, and coins everywhere. Orange stockings and cutelittle red slippers, and two long braids of black hair. Oh, down tothere, " Chrystie thrust out her foot, her skirt drawn close over astalwart leg, on which, just above the knee, she laid her finger tips. Her eyes on Mark were as unconscious as a baby's. "I don't think it's allher own, it's too long--I'll ask Charlie Crowder. "

Aunt Ellen had not gone off again and to prove it said, "How would he know?"

"Well he'd see it, wouldn't he? He'd see it when she took off her hat, all wound round her head, yards and yards of it. No, it's false, it waspinned on under that little cap thing. And after the second act when shecame on to bow she carried a bunch of flowers--oh, that big, " her armsoutlined a wide ellipse, "the same colors as her dress, red carnationsand some sort of yellowish flower I couldn't see plainly. "

Mark, seeing some comment was expected of him, hazarded a safe, "You don't say!"

"And just as she was going off"--Lorry took it up now--"she looked atsomeone in a box and smiled and--"

But Chrystie couldn't bear it. She leaned toward her sister imploringly. 

"Now, Lorry, let me tell that--you _know_ I noticed it first. " Then toMark, "She was close to the side where they go off and I was looking ather through the glasses, and I saw her just as plain give a sort of quicklook into the box and then smile and point to the flowers. It was as ifshe said to the person in there, 'You see, I've got them. '"

"Who was in the box?"

Chrystie bounced exuberantly on the stool. 

"That's the joke. None of us could see. Whoever he was he was far back, out of sight. It was awfully exciting to me for I simply adore PanchaLopez and Charlie Crowder, who knows her so well, says she hasn't anadmirer of any kind. "

Aunt Ellen came to the surface with, "Perhaps she's going to get one now. "

And Lorry added, "I hope, if she is, he'll be somebody nice. Mr. Crowder says she's hadsuch a hard life and been so fine and brave all along. "

Soon after that Mark left. There had been a time when the first move fordeparture was as trying as the ordeal of entrance, but he had got beyondthat. Tonight he felt that he did it in quite an easy nonchalant way, theladies, true to a gracious tradition, trailing after him into the hall. It was there that an unexpected blow fell; Chrystie, the _enfantterrible, _delivered it. Gliding about to the hummed refrain of theCastanet song her eye fell on his card. She picked it up and readit:

"Mark D. L. Burrage. What does D. L. Stand for?"

It was Mark's habit, when this was asked, to square his shoulders, lookthe questioner in the eye, and say calmly, "Daniel Lawrence. "

But now that fierce loyalty to his own, that chafed pride, that angryrebellion which this house and these girls roused in him, made himsavagely truthful. A dark mahogany-red stained his face to the foreheadand he looked at Chrystie with a lowering challenge. 

"It stands for de Lafayette. "

"De Lafayette!" she stared, amazed. 

"Yes. My given name is Marquis de Lafayette. "

There was a moment's pause. He saw Chrystie's face, blank, taking it in, then terrible rising questions began to show in her eyes. He went on, glaringly hostile, projecting his words at her as if she was a target andthey were missiles:

"My mother liked the name. She thought it was unusual. It was she whogave it to me. "

Chrystie's lips opened on a comment, also on laughter. He could see bothcoming and he braced himself, then Lorry's voice suddenly rose, quiet, unastonished, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to havesuch a name:

"What a fine thing for her to do! She admired Lafayette and called youafter him. I think it was splendid of her. "

Outside, in the darkness of the street, he could almost have wept, inrage with himself, in the smart of her kindness. 

He wished his mother had been there, in that hall, in her old clothes. Hewould have hugged her to him, protested that his name was the crowningglory of his life. He would have liked to face them down, show them hispride in her, let them hear him tell her that whatever she had done wasin his opinion right. 

The place where he lived was not far, a lodging house on one of the steepstreets that sloped to the city's hollow. As he swung down the hills hethought of the hour of work he had promised himself, looked forward towith relish. Now his enthusiasm was gone, extinguished like a sparktrodden out by a haughty foot. All he had done looked suddenly trivial, his rise from a farm hand a petty achievement, he himself a rough, uncultured boor. What right had he at the house of Lorry Alston, breakinghimself against unsurmountable barriers? In the beginning he had onlythought to enthrone her as an ideal, lovely, remote, unaspired to. Shewould be a star fixed in his sky, object of his undesiring worship. Butit had not been that way. The star had not changed but he had ceased tobow in contemplation--looked up, loved and longed. 

The back wall of his dwelling rose above the trees and he saw thedarkling panes of his own windows. Soon his lamplight would glow throughthem, and he would be in the armchair with his book and his pipe. Thepicture brought back a surge of his conquering spirit. Nothing he had sethis hand to had beaten him yet. If he fought as he had fought for hiseducation, was fighting now for his place, he could fight up to her side. There was no rival in sight; Crowder, who knew them well, had told himso. He could put out all his energies, do more than man had ever donebefore, climb, if not to her proud place, at least where he did not comeas a beggar to a queen. Then, on his feet, the future clearing beforehim, he could go to her and try and win. He drew a deep breath and lookedup at the stars, remote as she had seemed that evening. The lift of hispassion swept him aloft on a wave of will and he murmured, "If she werethere among you, I'd try and get to her and carry her away in my arms. "

Meantime he would not go to her house any more--at least not for a longtime. There was no good; he was not the man to sit round in parlorslooking and acting like a fool. He could only work, blaze the trail, make the clearing, raise the homestead, and when it was ready go andtell her so. 

CHAPTER IX

GREEK MEETS GREEK

Early on the evening when the Alstons had seen "The Zingara, " Boyé Mayerwalked up Kearney Street looking into florists' windows. A cigarettedepended from his lip, his opened overcoat disclosed the glossy whitenessof a shield-like shirt bosom, his head was crowned by a shining top hat. He was altogether a noticeable and distinguished figure. 

He had been twice to the Albion and was going again this evening, havingalready engaged the right-hand stage box. Now he was purporting to sendPancha Lopez a third floral tribute and with it reveal his identity. Thetwo previous ones had been anonymous, but tonight her curiosity--rousedto a high pitch, or he knew nothing of women--would be satisfied. Shewould not only know who her unknown admirer was, but she would see himsitting in stately solitude in the right-hand box. 

She had been a great surprise. Where he had expected to find anoverblown, coarse woman with the strident voice of the music hall and itsbanal vulgarities, he had seen a girl, young, spontaneous, full of asparkling charm. He had heard enough singing to know that her voice, fresh and untrained, had promise, and that the spirited dash of herperformance indicated no common gifts. Under any circumstances she wouldhave interested him; how much more so now when he knew of her affiliationwith a notorious outlaw! She was evidently a potent personality, lawlessand daring. The situation appealed to his slyly malign humor, sheconfidently secure, he completely informed. It was a fitting sequel tothe picaresque adventure and he anticipated much entertainment frommeeting her, saw himself, with stealthy adroitness, worming his waytoward her guilty secrets. 

A florist's window, a bower of blossoms under the gush of electriclights, attracted him and he turned into the shop. The proprietor cameforward, ingratiatingly polite, his welcoming words revealing white teethand a foreign accent. 

The gentleman wanted a large sheaf bouquet in two colors, red andorange--certainly, and a Gallic wave of the hand indicated a marble slabwhere flowers were ranged in funnel-shaped green vases. Looking overthem, the gentleman lapsed into a French so perfect that the floristsuggested Monsieur was of that nation, also his own. Monsieur neitheradmitted nor denied the charge, occupied over the flowers. He was veryparticular about them--perhaps the florist would understand better whathe wanted when he knew they were for Miss Lopez at the Albion and weredesigned to match her gypsy dress. 

Ah, perfectly--several vases were drawn forward--and over these the twomen talked of Miss Lopez and her admirable performance. 

"A true artist, " the florist thought, "young, and without training asMonsieur can see. A Californian, a girl of the people, risen fromnothing. But no doubt Monsieur has already heard her history. "

Monsieur was a stranger, he knew little of the lady, and, apparentlyengrossed in his selection of the flowers, heard such facts in the careerof Pancha Lopez as the public were allowed to know. The florist ended thebiography with what should be--for the gentleman ordering so costly abouquet--the most notable item--Miss Lopez was a girl of spotlessreputation. 

Monsieur looked surprised:

"Has no favored one, no lovers?"

The florist, combining a scarlet carnation with a sunset rose, shruggedhis shoulders, treating the subject with the lively gravity of the Gaul:

"None, Monsieur. It is known that many men have paid their court, butno--good-day to you and out they go! She wants nobody--it is all work, work, work. A good, industrious girl, very unusual when one considers herbeginnings. But being so, and with her talents, she will arrive. My God, it is certain. "

Monsieur appeared no longer interested. He paid for his bouquet, whichwas to be sent to the stage door that evening, then wrote a message on acard. This time the card bore no "swell sentiment;" the words were frankand to the point:

"Why can't I know you? I want to so much. I am alone here and a stranger. If you care to look me over and see if you think I'm worth meeting, I'llbe in the right-hand stage box tonight. 

"BOYÉ MAYER, "Argonaut Hotel. "

As he walked to the Albion he thought over what he had heard. It was verydifferent from what he had expected to hear and increased his interest inher. He had given her credit for a high artistic intelligence, butevidently she possessed the other kind too. How else could she havespread an impression of herself so unlike what she really was? A deep, _rusée_ girl! He began to be very keen to meet her and see which of thetwo would be the more expert in the duel of attack and parry. 

The flowers and the note were delivered in the first entr'acte. With asliding rush Pancha was back on the stage, her eye glued to the peepholein the curtain. What she saw held her tranced. Like Mark, her standardssuffered from a limited experience. That the effective pose was studied, the handsome face hard and withered, the evening dress too showilyelegant, escaped her. She had never--except on the covers ofmagazines--seen such a man. 

The stage hands had to pull her away from the curtain and she went to herdressing room with her cheeks crimson under the rouge and her eyes likeblack diamonds. Upon his own stage, plumed, spurred and cloaked, romancehad entered with the tread of the conqueror. 

After the second gift of flowers her curiosity was as lively as Mayer hadexpected. But she was not going to show it, she was going to be cool andindifferent till he made himself known. Then she contemplated a guardedcondescension, might agree to be met and even called upon; a man whowrote such sentiments and gave such bouquets should not be treated withtoo much disdain. But when she saw him, her surprise was so great thatshe forgot all her haughty intentions. Gratified vanity surged throughher. At one moment she thrilled with the anticipation of meeting such apersonage, and at the next drooped to fears that she might disappoint hisfastidious taste. 

That night she answered the letter, writing it over several times:

MR. BOYÉ MAYER, DEAR FRIEND:

Thanks for the flowers. They're grand. I ain't ever before had suchbeautys espechully the ones that matched my dress. I looked you over andI don't think you're so bad, so if you still want to know me maybe youcan. I live in the Vallejo Hotel on Balboa Street and if you'd giveyourself the pleasure of calling I'll be there Tuesday at four. 

Yours truly, Miss PANCHA LOPEZ. 

P. S. Balboa Street is in the Mission. 

The next evening she received his answer, thanking her for her kindnessand saying he would come. 

She prepared for him with sedulous care, not only her room and herclothes, but herself. She was determined she would comport herselfcreditably, would be equal to the occasion and fulfill the highestexpectations. She was going to act like a lady--no one would ever suspectshe had once waited on table in the Buon Gusto restaurant, or been abarefoot, miner's kid. As she put on her black velveteen skirt and bestcrimson crêpe blouse, she pledged herself to a wary refinement, laid theweight of it on her spirit. The only models she had to follow were theleading ladies of the road companies she had seen, and she impressed uponher mind details of manner from the heroines of "East Lynne" and "TheBanker's Daughter. "

When four o'clock struck she was seated by the center table, a booknegligently held in one hand, her feet, in high-heeled, beaded slippers, neatly crossed, and a gold bracelet given her by her father on her arm. She took a last, inspecting glance round the room and found it entirelysatisfactory. On the table beside her a battered metal tray held a bottleof native Chianti, two glasses and a box of cigarettes. In Pancha's worlda visitor was always offered liquid refreshment and she had chosen theChianti as less plebeian than beer and not so expensive as champagne. Shehad no acquaintance with either wine or cigarettes; her thrifty habitsand care of her voice made her shun both. 

Mayer recognized the room as a familiar type--he had been in many suchin many lands. But the girl did not fit it. She looked to him veryun-American, more like a Spaniard or a French midinette. There wasnothing about her that suggested the stage, no make-up, none of its boldcoquetry or crude allure. She was rather stiff and prim, watchful, hethought, and her face added to the impression. With its high cheek bonesand dusky coloring he found it attractive, but also a baffling andnoncommittal mask. 

He was even more than she had anticipated. His deep bow over her hand, his deference, thrilled her as the Prince might have thrilled Cinderella. She was very careful of her manners, keeping to the weather, expressingherself with guarded brevity. A chill constraint threatened to blight theoccasion, but Mayer, versed in the weaknesses of stage folk, directed theconversation to her performance in "The Zingara, " for which he professedan ardent admiration. 

"I was surprised by it, even after what I'd heard. I wonder if you knowhow good it is?"

Her color deepened. 

"I try to make it good, I've been trying for six years. "

He smiled. 

"Six years! You must have begun when you were a child. "

This was too much for Pancha. Her delight at his praise had been hard tosuppress; now it burst all bonds. She forgot her refinement and theladylike solemnity of her face gave place to a gamin smile. 

"Oh, quit it. You can't hand me out that line of talk. I'm twenty-two andnobody believes it. "

Then _he_ laughed and the constraint was dissipated like a morning mist. They drew nearer to the table and Pancha offered the wine. To be politeshe took a little herself and Mayer, controlling grimaces as he sipped, asked her about her career. She told him what she was willing to tell;nothing of her private life which she thought too shamefully sordid. Itwas a series of jumps from high spot to high spot in her gradual ascent. He noticed this and judged it as a story edited for the public, ittallied so accurately with what he had heard already from the florist. There was evidently a rubber stamp narrative for general circulation. 

After she had concluded he made his first advance, lightly with an airof banter. 

"And how does it come that in this long, lonely struggle you've stayedunmarried?"

A belated coquetry--Pancha climbing up had wasted no time on suchunassisting arts--stirred in her. She tilted her head and shot a look athim from the sides of her eyes. 

"I guess no one came along that filled the bill. "

"Among all the men that must have come along?"

"Um-um, " she stood her glass on the table, turning its stem with her longbrown fingers. 

"The lady must be hard to please. "

"Maybe she is. "

Her eyes rested on the ruby liquid in the glass. The lids were fringedwith black lashes that grew straightly downward, making a semicircle oflittle, pointed dashes on each cheek. He could not decide whether she wasembarrassed or slyly amused. 

"Or perhaps she's just wedded to her art. "

"That cuts some ice, I guess. "

"Love is known to improve art. Haven't you ever heard that?"

"I shouldn't wonder. I've heard an awful lot about love. "

"Only heard, never felt? Never responded to any of the swains that havebeen crowding round?"

"How do you know they've been crowding round?"

He leaned nearer, gently impressive:

"What I'm looking at tells me so. "

She met his eyes charged with sentimental meaning, and burst intoirrepressible laughter. 

"Oh, _you_--shut up! I ain't used to such hot air. I'll have to open thewindows and let in the cold. "

It was not what he had expected and he felt rebuffed. Dropping back inhis chair, he shrugged his shoulders. 

"What can I say? It's not fair to let me come here and then muzzle me. "

"Oh, I ain't going as far as that. But you don't have to talk to me thatway. I'm the plain, sensible kind. "

He shook his head, slowly, incredulously. 

"No, I've got to contradict you. Lips can tell lies but eyes can't. You're a good many other things but you're not sensible. "

"What other things?"

"Charming, fascinating, piquant, with a heart like a bright, glowing coal. "

She threw back her head and let her laughter, rich and musical, float outon the room. 

"Oh, listen to him! Wouldn't it make a dog laugh!" Then, swaying on herchair, she leaned toward him, grave but with her eyes twinkling. "Mr. Man, you can't read me for a cent. Right here, " she touched her heartwith a finger tip, "it's frozen hard. I keep it in cold storage. "

"Hasn't it ever been taken out and thawed?"

"Never has and never will be. "

She swayed away from him, keeping her glance on his. For a still seconda strange seriousness, having no place in the scene, held them. She wasconscious of perplexity in his face, he of something wistful andquestioning in hers. She spoke first. 

"You're very curious about me, Mr. Boyé Mayer?"

She ought not to have said that and it was his fault that she did. Shewas no mean adversary and that she had seen through his first tentativesproved them clumsy and annoyed him. He smiled, a smile not altogetherpleasant, and rose. 

"All men must be curious where you're concerned. "

"Not as bad as you. "

"Ah, well, I'm a child of nature. I don't hide my feelings. I'm curiousand show it. Do you know what makes me so?"

She shook her head, anticipating flatteries. But he did not break intothem as quickly as she had expected. Turning to where his hat lay he tookit up, looked at it for a moment and then, with his gray eyes shifting tohers, said low, as if taking her into his confidence:

"I'm curious because you're interesting. I think you're the mostinteresting thing I've seen since I came to San Francisco. "

This was even more than she had hoped for. An unfamiliar bashfulness madeher look away from the gray eyes and stammer in rough deprecation:

"Oh, cut it out!"

"I never cut out the truth. But I'm going to cut out myself. It's timefor me to be moving on. Good-by. "

His hand was extended and she put hers into it, feeling the lightpressure of his cool, dry fingers. She did not know what to say, wantedto ask him to come again, but feared, in her new self-consciousness, itwasn't the stylish thing to do. 

"I'm real glad you called, " was the nearest she dared. 

He was at the door and turned, hopefully smiling. 

"Are you?"

"Sure, " she murmured. 

"Then why don't you ask me to come again?"

"I thought that was up to you. "

He again was unable to decide whether her coyness was an expression ofembarrassment or an accomplished artfulness, but he inclined to thelatter opinion. 

"Right O! I'll come soon, in a few days. _Hasta mañana_, fair lady. "

After the door had closed on him she stood sunk in thought, from whichshe emerged with a deep sigh. A slow, gradual smile curved her lips; sheraised her head, looked about her, then moving to the mirror, halted infront of it. The day was drawing toward twilight, pale light falling infrom the bay window and meeting the shadows in the back of the room. Herfigure seemed to lie on the glass as if floating on a pool of darkness. The black skirt melted into it, but the crimson blouse and the warmpallor of the face and arms emerged in liquid clearness, richly defined, harmoniously glowing. She looked long, trying to see herself with hiseyes, trying to know herself anew as pretty and bewitching. 

Mayer walked home wondering. He was completely intrigued by her. Herperformance in "The Zingara" had led him to expect a girl of much morepoise and finish, and yet with all her rawness she was far from naïve. His own experience recognized hers; both had lived in the world's squalidbyways; he could have talked to her in their language and she would haveunderstood. But she was not of the women of such places, she had a clean, clear quality like a flame. Daring beyond doubt, wild and elusive, butuntouched by what had touched the rest. He found it inexplicable, unlessone granted her unusual capacity, unsuspected depths and a rare andseasoned astuteness. He had to come back to that and he was satisfied todo so. It would add zest to the duel which had just begun. 

CHAPTER X

MICHAELS, THE MINER

So distinguished a figure as Boyé Mayer could not live long unnoticed inSan Francisco. He had not been a month at the hotel before items abouthim appeared in the press. Mrs. Wesson, society reporter of the_Despatch_, after seeing him twice on Kearney Street, found out who hewas and rustled into the Argonaut office for a word with Ned Murphy. Mr. Mayer was a wealthy gentleman from New York, but back of that Murphyguessed he was foreign, anyway the Frenchwoman who did his laundry andthe Dutch tailor who pressed his clothes said he could talk theirlanguages like he was born in the countries. He wasn't friendly, sort ofdistant; all he'd ever said to Murphy was that he was on the coast forhis health and wanted to live very quiet to get back his strength afteran illness. 

It wasn't much but Mrs. Wesson made a paragraph out of it that neatlyrounded off her column. 

Even without the paragraphs he would not have been unheeded. Among thecarelessly dressed men, bustling along the streets in jostling haste, heloomed immaculately clad, detached, splendidly idle amidst their vulgaractivity. He had the air of unnoticing hauteur, unattainable by theAmerican and therefore much prized. His clean-shaven, high-nosed face washeld in a brooding abstraction, his well-shod foot seemed to press thepavement with disdain. Eating a solitary dinner at Jack's or Marchand's, he looked neither to the right nor the left. Beauty could stare andwhisper and he never give it the compliment of a glance. Ladies whoentertained began to inquire about him, asked their menkind to find outwho he was, and if he was all right make his acquaintance and "bring himto the house. "

He was not so solitary as he looked. Besides Pancha Lopez he had metother people. The wife of the manager of the Argonaut Hotel had asked himto a card party, found him "a delightful gentleman" and handed him on toher friends. They too had found him "a delightful gentleman" and thehanding on had continued. He enjoyed it, slipping comfortably into thenew environment--it was a change after the sinister years beyond thepale, and the horrible, outcast days. Also he did not confine himself tothe small sociabilities to which he was handed on. There were many pathsof profit and pleasure in the city by the Golden Gate and he explored anythat offered entertainment--those that led to tables green as grass underthe blaze of electric lights, those that led to the poker game behindSoledad Lanza's pink-fronted restaurant, those that led up alleys todark, secretive doors, and that which led to Pancha's ugly sitting room. 

He sought this one often and yet for all his persuasive cunning he foundout nothing, got no further, surprised no admissions. He was drawn backthere teased and wondering and went away again, piqued and baffled. 

One evening, a month after her first meeting with him, Pancha, going homeon the car, thought about her father. She felt guilty, for of late shehad rather forgotten him and this was something new and blameworthy. Nowshe remembered how long it was since she had seen him and that his lastletter had come over a month ago. It was a short scrawl from Downievilleand had told her that the sale of his prospect hole--he had hoped tosell it sometime early in September--had fallen through. He had seemeddown-hearted. 

Despite the divergent lines of their lives a great tie of affectionunited them. They met only at long intervals--when he came into town fora night--and all correspondence between them was on his side as she neverknew where he was. Even had he not lavished a rough tenderness upon her, the memory of pangs mutually suffered, of hardships mutually endured, would have bound her to him. He was the only person who had passed, closely allied, an intimate figure, through the full extent of her life. Though he was so much to her she never spoke of him, except to CharlieCrowder, her one friend, of whose discretion she was sure. This reticencewas partly due to tenderness--the past and his place in it had theirsacredness--and partly to the miner's own wish. As her star had risen itwas he who had suggested the wisdom of "keeping him out. " He thought itbad business; an opera singer's father--especially a father with a pickand a pan--had no advertising value and might be detrimental. When he putit that way she saw the sense of it--Pancha was always quick to seethings from a business angle--and fell in with his wish. She was notunwilling to. It wasn't that she was ashamed of him, she cared too littlefor the world to be ashamed of anything, but she did not want him made ajoke of in the wings or written up satirically in the theatrical column. When small road managers who had known her at the start came into townand asked where "Pancha's Pa" was, nobody knew anything about such aperson, and they guessed "the old guy must have died. "

Since she had lived at the Vallejo Hotel he had been there five times, always after dark. She had told Cushing, the night clerk, that Mr. Michaels was a relation of hers from the country and if he came when shewas out to let him into her rooms. 

As she drew up at the desk and asked for her key--it hung on a rackstudded with little hooks--Cushing, drowsing with his feet on a chair, rose wearily, growling through a yawn:

"Mr. Michaels has came. He's been here about an hour. I done what yousaid and let him in. "

She smothered an expression of joy, snatched the key and ran upstairs. Lovely--just as she was thinking of him! She let herself in anticipatinga glad welcome and saw that he was lying on the sofa asleep. 

The only light in the room was from the extension lamp on the table andby its shaded glow she stood looking at him. He was sleeping heavily, still wrapped in the old overcoat she knew so well, his coarse hands, with blackened finger nails, clasped on his breast. His face, relaxed inrest, looked worn, the forehead seamed with its one deep line, the eyessunk below the grizzled brows. It came upon her with a shock that heseemed old and tired, and it hurt her. In a childish desire to bring himback to himself, have him assume his familiar aspect and stop her pain, she shook him by the shoulder, crying:

"Pa, Pa, wake up. "

He woke with a violent start, his feet swung to the floor, his bodyhunched as if to spring, his glance wildly alive. Then it fell on her andthe fierce alertness died out; his face softened into a smile, almostsheepish, and he rubbed his hand over his eyes. 

"Lord, I was asleep, " he muttered. 

She kissed him, pulled him up, and with an arm round his back, steered him to an armchair, asking questions. His hand on her waistpatted softly. 

"Well, you ain't fattened up any, " he said with a quizzical grin andside glance. 

That made him look more like himself, but Pancha noticed that hismovements were stiff. 

"What's the matter?" she said sharply. "You ain't got the rheumatismagain, have you?"

"Nup, " he sank slowly into the chair. "But sometimes when I first moveI sort 'er kink at the knees. Gets me in the morning, but I limber upall right. "

She stood beside him, uneasily frowning. 

"What are you goin' to do this winter when the rains begin? You can't runrisks of being sick, and me not able to get to you. "

"Sick--hell!" He shot a humorous look at her. "I ain't sick in God's owncountry--it's only down here. Why y'ain't all as stiff as stone images inthis sea-damp beats me. "

"Oh, it's the damp, " she said, relieved. 

"Course it's the damp. I wouldn't expect a rope dancer to live here andstay spry. "

That was like Pa; her anxiety evaporated and she began to smile. 

"Well, there's one person who does--yours truly. If you don't believe it, come to the Albion and see. "

"There ain't another like you, hon. There's not your match from theRockies to the Pacific. "

"Oh, old blarney!" she cried, now joyous, and, giving him a pat on theshoulder, moved about collecting supper. "Sit tight there while I get youa bite. I've some olives that'll make you think you're back among thegreasers. "

The supper came from divers places--the window sill, the top bureaudrawer, the closet shelf. Beer and sardines were its chief features, withblack olives soaked in oil and garlic, cheese straws taken from a corsetbox, and ripe figs oozing through their paper bag. 

They ate hungrily without ceremony, wiping their fingers on the towel shehad spread for a cloth. As they munched they swapped their news--hisfailure at selling the ledge, her success in "The Zingara. " He listenedto that with avid attention. 

"Can you stay and see me tomorrow night?" she asked. 

He shook his head. 

"'Fraid not. I got a date with a feller in Dutch Flat for tomorrowafternoon. "

"About the prospect?"

"Yep--it's a chance and I got to jump at it. "

"Why did it fall through before?"

He shoveled in a cracker spread with sardines before he answered. 

"Oh, same old story--thought it didn't show up as big as they'd expected. You can't count on it, no more'n you can on the weather. "

She smothered a sigh. The "prospect" and the "ledge" had been part oftheir life, lifting them to high hopes, dropping them to continualdisappointment. She would have counseled him to give it all up, but thathe now and then had had luck, especially in the last five years. She wentback to herself. 

"'The Zingara' has been a great thing for me. Everybody says so. If thenext piece goes as big I'm going to strike for a raise. Wait till I showyou, " she jumped up, rubbing her oily fingers on the towel, "and you'llsee why little Panchita's had to get an extra-sized hat. "

She took from a side table a book--the actress's scrap album--and cameback flirting its pages. At one she pressed it open and held it towardhim, triumphantly pointing to a clipping. "There, from the _SacramentoCourier_. "

He gave a glance at the clipping and said:

"Oh, yes, _that_. Grand, ain't it?"

She was surprised. 

"You've seen it. Why didn't you send it to me?"

"Who said I'd seen it?" He took the book from her, staring across it, suddenly combative. "Don't you run along so fast. Ain't you known if Ihad I'd have mailed it to you?"

"But how did you know about it?" she said, her surprise growing, for shesaw he was moved. 

"You're gettin' too darned quick. " He pushed the book in among the dishesroughly, his irritation obvious. 

"Ain't it possible I might have heard it? Might have met a feller thatcome up from Marysville who'd seen It and told me?"

"Yes, of course it is. You needn't get mad about it. "

"Mad--who said I was mad?" He bent over the book, muttering like a stormin retreat. "I guess I ain't missed so many that when one does get by meyou should throw it in my teeth. "

She smoothed the top of his head with a placating hand and went back toher seat. Nibbling a ripe olive she watched him as he read. Her eyeswere anxiously questioning. This too--anger at so small a thing--wasunlike him. 

When he had finished his annoyance was over; pride beamed from his faceas if a light was lit behind it. 

"I guess there ain't many of 'em get a write-up like that. " He put thebook aside and began a second attack on the supper. "Crowder's somefriend. His little finger's worth more'n the whole kit and crew you'vehad danglin' round you since you started. "

"You're right. " She stretched her hand for a fig, spilling, bruised andbursting, from the torn bag. "There's a new one dangling. "

With her father Pancha was always truthful. To the rest of the world shelied whenever she thought it necessary, never carelessly or prodigally, for to be fearless was part of her proud self-sufficiency. But as she hadlearned to fight, to battle her way up, to climb over her enemy, to wresther chance from opposing forces, she had learned to lie when the occasiondemanded. She was only entirely frank and entirely truthful with the oneperson whom she loved. 

He put down his glass and looked at her, in sudden, fixed attention. 

"What's that?"

"I've got a real, genuine, all-wool-yard-wide beau. "

She leaned her elbows on the table, holding the fig to her mouth, herthin fingers manipulating the skin as she sucked the pulp. Her eyes werefull of laughter. 

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I'm telling you. You needn't look like I'd said he was adefaulting bank cashier, nor so surprised either. It ain't flattering toyour only child. "

Her father did not respond to her gayety. 

"Look-a-here, Panchita, " he began, but she stopped him, flapping along hand. 

"Cut it out, Pop. I know all that. You needn't come any stern parentbusiness over me. _I'm_ on. _I_ know my way about. I ain't going to runmy head into any noose, or tie any millstone round my neck. Don't youthink by this time you can trust me?"

Her words seemed to reassure him. The bovine intensity of his gazesoftened. 

"You've had a heap of beaux, " he said moodily. 

"And kept every last one of 'em in their place, except for those I kickedout. And they got to their place; my kick landed them there. "

"Who is he?"

Pancha returned to her fig, looking over its wilted skin forclinging tidbits. 

"Named Mayer, a foreigner--at least he's born here, but he looks foreignand acts foreign; hands out the kind of talk you read in books. Awfulhigh class. "

"Treats you respectful?"

She gave him a withering glance. 

"_Respectful!_ Treats me like I'd faint if he spoke rough or break if hetouched me. I ain't ever seen anything so choice. You said I wasthin--it's keeping up such a dignified style that's worn me down. "

This description was so unlike the bandit's idea of love-making that hebecame incredulous. 

"How do you know he's a beau? Looks like to me he was just marking time. "

She smiled, the secret smile of a woman who has seen the familiar signs. She had taken another fig and delicately breaking it open, eyed itscrimson heart. 

"He's jealous. "

"Who of?"

"Nobody, anybody, everybody. " She began to laugh, and putting her lips tothe fruit, sucked, and then drew them away stained with its ruby juice. "He's always trying to draw me, find out if there isn't somebody I like. Pop, you'd laugh if you could hear him sniffing round the subject like acat round the cream. "

"What do you tell him?"

"_Me?_" She gave him a scornful cast of her eye. Her face was flushed, and with her crimsoned mouth and shining eyes she was for the momentbeautiful. "I got my pride. I told him the truth at first, and when hewouldn't believe me--'Oh, no, there _must be_ someone'--I says to myself, 'All right, deary, have it your own way, ' and I jolly him along now, "she laughed with joyous memory. "I got him good and guessing, Pop. "

The old man looked dissatisfied. 

"I ain't much stuck on this, Panchita. What good are you goin' to getout of it?"

"Fun!" she cried, throwing the fig skin on the table. "Don't I deservesome after six years? If he wants to act like a fool that's his affair, and believe me, he's able to take care of himself. And so am I. No oneknows that better than you do, deary. "

He left soon after that. In his nomad life, with its long gaps ofseparation from her, it was easy for him to keep his movements concealedand caution had become a habit. So he had not told her that on his lastvisit to the city he had taken a room, instead of going to one of themen's hotels that dotted the Mission. It was in a battered, dingy housethat crouched in shame-faced decay behind the shrubs and palms of a oncejaunty garden. Mrs. Meeker, the landlady, was a respectable woman who hadseen so complete an extinction of fortune that she asked nothing of herfew lodgers but the rent in advance and a decent standard of sobriety. Tothe bandit it offered a seclusion so grateful that he had resolved tokeep it, a hiding-place to which he could steal when the longing for hischild would not be denied. 

The house was not far from the Vallejo Hotel, on a cross street off oneof the main avenues of traffic. As he rounded the corner he saw the blackbushiness of its garden and then, barring the night sky, the skeleton ofa new building. The sight gave him a disagreeable shock; anything thatlet more life and light into that secluded backwater was a menace. Heapproached, anxiously scanning it. It took the place of old rookeries, demolished in his absence, one side rising gaunt and high against Mrs. Meeker's. He leaned from the front steps and looked over the fence; theseparation between the two walls was not more than two or three feet. 

His room was on the top floor in the back, and gaining it, he jerked upthe shade and looked out. Formerly a row of dreary yards extended to thehouses in the rear. Now the frame of the new building filled them in, projecting in sketchy outline to the end of the lots. Disturbed hestudied it--four stories, a hotel, apartments, or offices. Whatever itwas it would be bad for him, bringing men so close to his lair. 

He stood for some time gazing out, saw a late, lopsided moon swim intothe sky and by its light the yard below develop a beauty of glisteningleaves and fretted shadows. The windows of the houses beyond the fenceshone bright, glazed with a pallid luster. Even Mrs. Meeker's stable, wherein she kept her horse and cart, the one relic saved from betterdays, stood out darkly picturesque amid the frosted silver of vines. Hesaw nothing of all this, only the black skeleton which would soon beastir with the life he shunned. 

He drew down the shade and dropped heavily into a chair, his feetsprawled, his chin sunk on his breast. The single gas jet emitted atorn yellow flame that issued from the burner with a stuttering, ripping sound. The light gilded the bosses of his face, wax-smoothabove the shadowed hollows, and it looked even older than it had insleep. His spirit drooped in a somber exhaustion--he was so tired of itall, of the stealth, the watchfulness, the endless vigilance, the lackof rest. One more coup, one lucky haul, and he was done. Then therewould be the ranch, peace, security, an honest ending, and Pancha, believing, never knowing. 

CHAPTER XI

THE SOLID GOLD NUGGET

The autumn was drawing to an end and the winter season settling into itsgait. Everybody was back in town, at least Mrs. Wesson said so in hercolumn, where she also prophesied a program of festivities for the comingsix months. This was reassuring as Mrs. Wesson was supposed to know, andanyway there were signs of it already--a first tentative outbreak ofparties, little dinners cropping up here and there. People who did thingswere trailing back from Europe, bringing new clothes and ideas with whichto abash the stay-at-homes. Big houses were opening and little housesthat had been open all along were trying to pretend they had been shut. Furs were being hung on clothes lines and raincoats brought out ofclosets. Violets would soon be blooming around the roots of the live oaksand the Marin County hills be green. In short the San Francisco winterwas at hand. 

The Alston house had been cleaned and set in order from the cellar to theroof and in its dustless, shining spaciousness Lorry sat down and facedher duties. The time had come for her to act. Chrystie must take herplace among her fellows, be set forth, garnished and launched as befittedthe daughter of George Alston. It was an undertaking before which Lorry'sspirit quailed, but it was part of the obligation she had assumed. Thoughshe had accepted the idea, the translation from contemplation to actionwas slow. In fact she might have stayed contemplating had not aconversation one night with Chrystie nerved her to a desperate courage. 

The girls occupied two adjoining rooms on the side of the house whichoverlooked the garden. Across the hall was their parents' room, exactlythe same as it had been when Minnie Alston died there. Behind it wereothers, large, high-ceilinged, with vast beds and heavy curtains. Thesehad been tenanted at long intervals, once by an uncle from the East, since deceased, and lately by the Barlow girls, Chrystie's friends fromSan Mateo. That had been quite an occasion. Chrystie talked of it as shedid of going to the opera or on board the English man-of-war. 

Lorry was sitting in front of the glass brushing her hair, whenChrystie, supposedly retired, came in fully dressed. She dropped ontothe side of the bed, watching her sister, with her head tilted, her eyedreamily ruminant. 

"What's the matter, dear?" said Lorry. "Why aren't you in bed?"

Chrystie yawned. 

"I can't possibly imagine except that I don't want to be there, " camethrough the yawn. 

"Aren't you sleepy?"

"In a sort of way. " She yawned again and stretched with a wide spreadof arms. "I seem to be sleepy on the outside but it doesn't go downinto my soul. "

Lorry, drawing the comb through her long hair which fell in a shiningsweep from her forehead to the chair seat, wanted this explained. But hersister vaguely shook her head and stared at the carpet, then, after apause, murmured:

"I wish something would happen. "

"What kind of thing?"

"Oh, just something--any old thing would be a change. "

Lorry stopped combing. 

"Do you mean that you're dull?" she asked. The worried gravity of herface did not fit the subject. 

"That must be it. " Chrystie raised her eyes and looked at the cornice, her red lips parted, her glance becoming animated. "Yes, of course, that's it--I'm dull. Why didn't I see it myself? You've put it before mein letters of fire--I'm dreadfully dull. "

"What would you like to do?"

"Have some good times, lots of them. There aren't enough of them thisway. We can't go to the theater too often or we'd get used to it, and Ican't get the Barlows to come up here every week, they have such crowdsof engagements. "

She sighed at the memory of the Barlows' superior advantages and the sighsounded like a groan of reproach in Lorry's ears. Innocently, unconsciously, unaccusingly, Chrystie was rubbing in the failure of herstewardship. She combed at the ends of her hair, her eyes blind to itsburnished brightness. 

"Would you like to have a party here?" she said in a solemn voice. 

Chrystie's glance was diverted from the cornice, wide open andastonished. 

"A party here, in _this_ house?"

"Yes, it's big enough. There's plenty of room and we can afford it. "

"But, Lorry"--the proposition was so startling that she could hardlybelieve it--"a _real_ party?"

"Any kind of a party you want. We might have several. We could begin witha dinner; Fong can cook anything. "

Chrystie, the idea accepted and held in dazzled contemplation, suddenlysaw a flaw. 

"But where would we get any men?"

"We know some and we could find some more. "

"You talk as if you could find them scattered about on the ground the waythey found nuggets in '49. Let's count our nuggets. " She held up thespread fingers of a large white hand, bending one down with each name. "There's Charlie Crowder if he can get off, and his friend Robinson inthe express company, and Roy Barlow, whom I know so well I could recitehim in my sleep, and Mrs. Kirkham's grandnephew who looks like achild--and--and--good gracious, Lorry, is that _all_ our nuggets?"

"We could have some of those young men whose mothers knew ours. "

"You said you didn't like them. "

"I know I did, but if you're going to give parties you have to havepeople you don't like to fill up. "

"Um, " Chrystie pondered, "I suppose you must. Oh, there's Marquis deLafayette. "

"Yes, " said Lorry, "I thought of him. "

Chrystie's eyes, bright with question, rested on her sister. 

"You can't exactly call him a nugget. "

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't shine, darling. "

This explanation appeared to strike its maker as a consummate witticism. She fell back on the bed in spasms of laughter. 

Lorry looked annoyed. 

"He's nicer than any of the others, I think. "

"Of course he is, but he's been buried too long in the soil; he needspolishing. " She rolled over on the bed in her laughter. 

Lorry began to braid her hair, her face grave. 

"I don't think things like that matter a bit, and I don't see at all whatyou're laughing at. "

"I'm laughing at Marquis de Lafayette. I can't help it--something abouthis hands and his manners. They're so ponderously polite; maybe it's fromwaiting on table in the students' boarding house. "

"I never knew you were a snob before, Chrystie. "

"I guess I am. Isn't it awful? Oh, dear, I've laughed so much I've got apain. It's perfectly true, I'm a snob. I like my nuggets all smooth andshiny with no knobs or bits of earth clinging to them. "

Lorry's hair was done and she rose and approached her sister. 

"You've spoiled my bed. Get off it and go. "

But Chrystie would not move. With her face red and the tears of herlaughter standing in her eyes she gazed at the serious one. 

"Lorry, darling, you look so sweet in that wrapper with your hairslicked back. You look like somebody I know. Who is it? Oh, of course, the Blessed Damozel, leaning on the bar of Heaven, only it's the barof the bed. "

"Don't be silly, Chrystie. Get up. "

"Never till I have your solemn, eternal, sworn-to promise. "

"What promise?"

"To give that party. "

"You have it--I said I'd do it and I will. "

"And get nuggets for it?"

"Yes. "

"All right, I'll go. "

She sat up, rosy, disheveled, her hair hanging in a tousled mop from itsloosened pins. Catching Lorry's hand, she squeezed it, looking up at herlike an affectionate, drowsy child. 

"Dear little Blessed Damozel, I love you a lot even though you arehigh-minded and think I'm a snob. "

She had been in her room for some minutes, Lorry already in bed with alight at her elbow and a book in her hand, when she reappeared in thedoorway. The pins were gone from her hair and it lay in a yellow tangleon her shoulders, bare and milk-white. Looking at her sister with round, shocked eyes, she said:

"It's just come to me how awful it is that two young, beautiful andaristocratic ladies should have to hunt so hard for nuggets. It's tragic, Lorry. It's _scandalous_, " and she disappeared. 

Lorry couldn't read after that. She put out the light and made plansin the dark. 

The next day she rose, grimly determined, and girded herself for action. In the morning, giving Fong the orders, she told him she was going tohave a dinner, and in the afternoon went to see Mrs. Kirkham. 

Mrs. Kirkham had once been a friend of Minnie Alston's and she was theonly one of that now diminishing group with whom Lorry felt at ease. Hadthe others known of the visit and its cause they would have thrown uptheir hands and said, "Just like that girl. " Mrs. Kirkham was nobody now, the last person to go to for help in social matters. In the old days inNevada her husband had been George Alston's paymaster, and she had heldher head high and worn diamonds. 

But that was ages ago. Long before the date of this story the high headhad been lowered and the diamonds sold, all but those that encircled theminiature of her only baby, dead before the Con-Virginia slump. She livedin a little flat up toward the cemeteries, second floor, door to theleft, and please press the push button. In her small parlor the picturesof the Bonanza Kings hung on the walls and she was wont, an old rheumaticfigure in shiny black with the miniature pinned at her withered throat, to point to these and tell stories of the great Iliad of the Comstock. 

She was very fond of Lorry and when she heard her predicament--a party tobe given and not enough men--patted her hand and nodded understandingly. Times were changed--ah, if the girls had been in Virginia in theseventies! And after a brisk canter through her memories (she always hadto have that) galloped back into the present and its needs. Lorry wenthome reassured and soothed. You could always count on Mrs. Kirkham'staking hold and helping you through. 

The old lady was put on her mettle, flattered by the appeal, made to feelshe was still a living force. Also she would have done anything in theworld for Minnie's girls. She consulted with her niece, well married andsocially aspiring if not yet installed in the citadel. It was a happythought; the niece had the very thing, "a delightful gentleman, " latelyarrived in the city. So it fell out that Boyé Mayer, under thechaperonage of Mrs. Kirkham, was brought to call and asked to fill a seatat the formidable dinner. 

Formidable was hardly a strong enough word. It advanced on Lorry like adarkling doom. Once she had set its machinery in motion it seemed to rushforward with a vengeful momentum. Everybody accepted but Charlie Crowder, who could not get off, and Mark Burrage, who wrote her a short, stiffnote saying he "was unable to attend. " For a space that made heroblivious to the larger, surrounding distress. It was a little privateand particular sting for herself that concentrated her thoughts upon thehurt it left. After she read it her face had flushed, and she had droppedit into her desk snapping the lid down hard. If he didn't want to come hecould stay away. Men didn't like her anyway; she knew it and she wasn'tgoing to make any mistakes. Her concern in life was Chrystie and it wasbeing pointed out to her that she wasn't supposed to have any other. 

Finally the evening came and everything was ready. Fong's talents, after years of disuse, rose in the passion of the artist and produced afeast worthy of the past. A florist decorated the table and the lowerfloor. Mother's jewels were taken out of the safety deposit box, andLorry and Chrystie, in French costumes with their hair dressed so thatthey looked like strangers, gazed upon each other in the embowereddrawing-room realizing that they had brought it upon themselves andmust see it through. 

The start was far from promising; none of them seemed able to live up toit. Aunt Ellen kept following the strange waiters with suspicious eyes, then looking down the glittering table at Lorry like a worried dog. AndChrystie, who had been all blithe expectation up to the time she dressed, was suddenly shattered by nervousness, making detached, breathlessremarks about the weather and then drinking copious draughts of water. Asfor Lorry, she felt herself so small and shriveled that her new dresshung on her in folds and her mouth was so dry she could hardlyarticulate. 

It was awful. The guests seemed to feel the blight and wither under it, eating carefully as if fearing sounds of mastication might intrude on thelong, recurring silences. There was a time when Lorry thought shecouldn't bear it, had a distracted temptation to leap to her feet, sayshe was faint and rush from the place. Then came the turn in thetide--Mr. Mayer, the strange man Mrs. Kirkham had produced, did it. Shehad noticed that he alone seemed free from the prevailing discomfort, looked undisturbed and calm, glancing at the table, the guests, herselfand Chrystie. But it was not until the fish that he started to talk. Itwas about the fish, but it branched away from the fish, radiated out fromit to other fish, to the waters where the other fish swam, to thecountries that gave on the waters, to the people who lived in thecountries. 

He woke them all up, held them entranced. Lorry couldn't be surewhether he really was so clever or seemed so by contrast with them, butshe thought it was the latter. It didn't matter; nothing matteredexcept that he was making it go. And at first she had been loath to askhim! She hadn't liked him, thought he was too suavely elaborate, a sortof overdone imitation. Well, thank goodness she had, for he simply tookthe dinner which was settling down to a slow, sure death and made itcome to life. 

Presently they were all talking, to their partners, across the table, even to Aunt Ellen. The exhilarating sound of voices rose to a hum, thena concerted babble broken by laughter. It grew animated, it grewsparkling, it grew brilliant. Chrystie, with parted lips and glisteningeyes, became as artlessly amusing as she was in the bosom of her family. She was delightful, her frank enjoyment a charming spectacle. Lorry, inthat seat which so short a time before had seemed but one remove from theelectric chair, now reigned as from a throne, proudly surveying thesplendors of her table and the gladness of her guests. 

When it was over, the last carriage wheels rumbling down the street, thegirls stood in the hall and looked at one another. Aunt Ellen, creakingin her new silks, toiled up the stairs, an old, shaky hand on thebalustrade. 

"Come up, girls, " she quavered; "you must be dead tired. "

"Well, " breathed Lorry with questioning eyes on her sister, "how was it?"

Chrystie jumped at her and folded her in a rapturous embrace. 

"Oh, it was maddening, blissful, rip-roarious! Oh, Lorry, it was thegrandest thing since the water came up to Montgomery street!"

"You _did_ enjoy it, didn't you?"

"Enjoy it! Why, I never had such a galumptious time in my life. Theyall did. The Barlow girls are on their heads about it--they said so andI saw it. "

"I think everybody had a good time. "

"Of course they did. But, oh, didn't you nearly die at the beginning? Iwas sick. Honestly, Lorry, I felt something sinking in me down here, and my mouth getting all sideways. If it hadn't been for that man I'dhave just slipped out of my seat under the table and died there attheir feet. "

"He saved it, " said Lorry solemnly, as one might mention a doctor who hadbrought back from death a beloved relative. 

The gas was out and they were mounting the stairs, arms entwined, warmyoung flesh on warm young flesh. 

"Isn't he a thoroughbred, isn't he a gem!" Chrystie chanted. "I'd like togo to Mrs. Kirkham's tomorrow, climb up her front stairs on my knees andknock my forehead on the sill of her parlor door. "

"Did you really like him? I think he's clever and entertaining but Iwouldn't want him for a friend. "

"I didn't think about him that way. I just sort of stood off andadmired. He's the most _magnetic_ thing!"

"Yes, I suppose he is, but--"

"There are no buts about it. " Then in the voice of knowledge, "I'll tellyou what he is, I'll put it in terms you can understand--he's the perfectspecimen of the real, genuine, solid gold nugget. "

CHAPTER XII

A KISS

After the dinner Mayer walked downtown. He had been a good dealsurprised, rather amused, and in the drawing-room afterward extremelybored. His amusement was sardonic. He grinned at the thought of himselfin such company and wondered if it could have happened anywhere butCalifornia. Those two girls, rich and young, were apparently free to askanybody into their house. It was curious, and he saw them similarlyplaced in Europe; they would have been guarded like the royal treasure, chiefly to keep such men as himself out. 

The splendor of the entertainment had surprised him. He was becoming usedto the Californian's prodigal display of flowers, but such a dinner, served to unappreciative youth, was something new. The whole affair hadbeen a combination of an intelligent luxury and a rank crudity--food fitfor kings set before boys and girls who had no more appreciation of itsexcellence than babies would have had. And the silver on the table, cumbrously magnificent, it was worth a small fortune. 

Outside the humor of his own presence there, he had found the affairtedious, especially that last hour in the drawing-room. It was the sortof place that had always bored him even when he was young, governed bynarrow, feminine standards, breathing a ponderous respectability fromevery curtain fold. Neither of the girls had been attractive. The elder, the small, pale one, was a prim, stiff little thing. The other wasnothing but a gawky child; fine coloring--these Californians all hadit--but with no charm or mystery. They were like the fruit, all run tosize but without much flavor. He thought the elder girl had someintelligence; one would have to be on one's guard with her. He made amental note of it, for he intended going there again--it was the bestmeal he had eaten since he left New York. 

The night was warm and soft, a moon rising over the housetops. Hebreathed deep of the balmy air, inhaling it gratefully. After such aconstrained three hours he felt the need of relaxation, of easysurroundings, of an expansion to his accustomed dimensions. Swinging downthe steep street between the dark gardens and flanking walls, he surveyedthe lights of the city's livelier center and thought of something to dothat would take the curse of the dinner off his spirit. 

A half hour later Pancha, emerging from the alley that led to theAlbion's stage door, saw a tall, familiar shape approach from theshadows. Her heart gave a jump, and as her hand was enfolded in astrong, possessive grasp, she could not control the sudden quickening ofher breath. 

"Oh, it's you! Gee, how you scared me, " she said, to account for it. 

He squeezed the hand, murmuring apologies, his vanity gratified, for heknew no man at the stage door would ever scare Pancha. 

As it was so fine a night he suggested that she walk back to the hoteland let him escort her, to which, with a glance at the moon, and a sniffof the mellow air, she agreed. 

So they fared forth, two dark figures, choosing quieter streets thanthose she usually trod, the tapping of her high heels falling with asmart regularity on the stillness held between the silver-washed walls. 

They were rather silent, conversation broken by periods when theirmingled footfalls beat clear on the large, enfolding mutter of the citysinking to sleep. It was his fault; heretofore he had been the leader, conducting her by a crafty discursiveness toward those confidences she soresolutely withheld. But tonight he did not want to talk, trailing lazysteps beside her, casting thoughtful glances upward at the vast, illumined sky. It made her nervous; there was something of a deep, disturbing intimacy about it; not a sweet and soothing intimacy, butportentous and agitating. She tried to be herself, laid about for brightthings to say and found she could pump up no defiant buoyancy, her tongueclogged, her spirit oppressed by a disintegrating inner distress. It didnot make matters any better when he said in a dreamy tone:

"Why are you so quiet?"

"I've worked hard tonight. I'm tired and you're walking so fast. "

He was immediately contrite, slackening his step, which in truth wasvery slow. 

"Oh, Pancha, what a brute I am. Why didn't you tell me?" And he took herhand and tried to draw it through his arm. 

But she resisted, pulling away from him almost pettishly, shrinking fromhis touch. 

"No, no, let me alone. I like to walk by myself. "

He drew back with a slight shrug, more amused than repulsed. Neverthelesshe was rather sorry he had suggested the walk, he had never known her tobe less entertaining. 

"Always proud, always independent, always keeping her guard up. " He casta questioning side glance at her face, grave and pale by his shoulder. "You wild thing, can no one tame you?"

"Why do you say I'm wild?"

"Because you are. How long have I known you? Since early in September andI don't get any nearer. You still keep me guessing. "

"About what?"

"About _what_?" He leaned down and spied at her profile. "Aboutyourself. "

"Oh, me!"

"Yes, you--what else? You're the most secretive little sphinxoutside Egypt. "

She did not answer for a moment. She _had_ been secretive, but it wasabout the humble surroundings of her youth, those ignominious beginningsof hers. Of this she could not bring herself to tell, fearful that itwould lower her in his esteem. She saw him, hearing of the Buon Gustorestaurant and the life along the desert, withdrawing from her in shockedrepugnance. About other things--the stage, the lovers--she had beenfrank, almost confidential. 

"I don't see why you say that, " she protested; "I've told you any amountof stuff. "

"But not everything. You know that, Pancha. "

He was now so keen, like a dog with its nose to the scent, that he forgother recent refusal and hooked his hand inside her arm. This time she didnot draw away and they walked on, close-linked, alone in the moonlitstreet. Conscious of her reticences, ashamed of her lack of candor, andyet afraid to make damaging revelations, she said defensively:

"I've told you as much as I want to tell. "

He seized on that, in his eagerness pressing her arm against his side, bending over her like a lover. 

"Yes, but not all. And why not all? Why should you keep anything fromme?"

"But why _should_ I tell you?" she asked, her loitering step comingto a stop. 

As the situation stood the question was a poser. He did not want to beher lover, had never intended it; his easy gallantry had meant nothing. But now, seeing her averted face, the eyes down-drooped, he could thinkof no reply that was not love-making. She stole a swift look at him, recognized his hesitation, and felt a stab, for it was the love-makinganswer she had expected. The mortified anger of the woman who has made abid for tenderness and seen herself mistaken surged up in her. 

She jerked her arm violently out of his grasp and walked forward at aswinging pace. 

"What's the matter?" he said, chasing at her heels. "Are you angry?"

"I shouldn't wonder, " she threw over her shoulder. "Being nagged at forfun doesn't appeal to me. "

"But what do you mean?--I'm all at sea. "

She suddenly brought up short, and wheeling, faced him, her facelowering, her breath quick:

"I'm the one to say that, for I don't get you, Boyé Mayer, I don't seewhat you're up to. But sometimes I think you've just come snooping roundroe to find out something. You come and you go, always so curious, alwayswanting to know, pussy-footing round with your questions and yourcompliments. What's on your mind?"

Mayer found himself in an impasse. She knew him too well and she was tooangry to be diverted with the temporizing lightness of their earlyacquaintance. There was only one thing to say to her, and--the cause ofher excitement plain to his informed mind--it was not difficult to say. 

"Pancha, " he pleaded, "you don't understand. "

"You bet I don't and I want to. I'd like to have it explained--I'd liketo know what you hang round me for. Do you think I'm hiding something? Doyou think I'm a criminal?"

"I think you're the most charming girl in the world, " he protested. 

She gave a smothered sound of rage and started off, faster than ever, down the street. This time he kept up with her, and rounding a corner thetwo lamps at the foot of the Vallejo's steps loomed up close at hand. 

"Stop, " he said. "Wait. " He had no idea the hotel was so near, andsurprised at the sight of it his voice became suddenly imperious and heseized her arm with a dominating grip. She tried to jerk it away, but heheld it and drew her, stiff and averse, toward him. 

"You foolish one, " he whispered. "Why, don't you see? I hang aroundbecause I can't help it. I come because I can't stay away--I want to knowabout you because I'm jealous of every man that ever looked at you. "

With the last word he threw his arm about her and snatched her close. Against him she suddenly relaxed, melted into a thing of yieldingsoftness, while his lips touched a cheek like a burning rose petal. 

The next moment she was gone. He had a glimpse of her on the Vallejosteps in swallow-swift silhouette and then heard the bang of the door. 

In her room Pancha moved about mechanically, doing the accustomed things. She lighted the light, took off her hat and jacket, brought the milk fromthe window sill. Then, with the bottle on the table beside her, she satdown, her hands in her lap, her eyes on space. She was as motionless as astatue, save for the breaths that lifted her chest. She sat that way fora long time, her only movements a shifting of her blank gaze or arespiration deeper than the others. She saw nothing of what her glancerested on, heard none of the decreasing midnight sounds in the street orthe house about her. An intensity of feeling had lifted her to a planewhere the familiar and habitual had no more place than had premonitionsand forebodings. 

CHAPTER XIII

FOOLS IN THEIR FOLLY

"The Zingara" had run its course and given place to "The Gray Lady, "which had not pleased the public. The papers said the leading role didnot show Miss Lopez off to the greatest advantage and the audiencesthinned, for Miss Lopez had transformed the Albion from a house of lightopera to a temple enshrining a star. The management, grumbling over theirmistake, laid about for something that would give the star a chance toexhibit those qualities which had deflected so many dollars from the"Eastern attractions" to their own box office. 

Charlie Crowder and Mark Burrage, walking together in the early night, turned into the Albion to have a look at the house and see Pancha in thelast act. They stood in the back, surveying the rows of heads in a darklevel, against the glaring picture of the stage, upon which, picked outby the spotlight, Pancha stood singing her final solo. Crowder's eyedropped from the solitary central figure to the audience and noted gapsin the lines, unusual in the Albion and predicting "The Gray Lady's"speedy demise. As the curtain fell he told Mark he was "going behind" fora word with his friend, she would need cheering up, and Mark, nodding, said he'd move along, he had work to do at home. 

The floor of heads broke as though upheaved by an earthquake, and thehouse rose, rustling and murmurous, and began crowding into the aisles. The young man, leaning against the rail behind the last row, watched it, a dense, coagulated mass, animated by a single impulse and moving as aunit. Crowding up the aisle it looked like a thick dark serpent, uncoiling its slow length, writhing toward the exit, the faces turnedtoward him a pattern of pale dots on its back. Among them at firstunnoticed by his vaguely roving glance were three he knew--the two Alstongirls and Aunt Ellen. 

It was always hot and stuffy in the Albion and Aunt Ellen had beenuncomfortable and fussed about it, and Chrystie was disappointed that herfavorite had not been able to make the performance a success. As theyedged forward she explained to Lorry that it wasn't Pancha's fault, itwas the sort of thing she didn't do as well as other things and sheoughtn't to have been made to do it. Then, her eye ranging, she suddenlystopped and gave Lorry a dig with her elbow. 

"There's Marquis de Lafayette. Do you see him?"

Lorry had, which did not prevent her from saying in a languid voice, "Where?"

"Over there by the railing. You know he _is_ good-looking, Lorry, whenhe's all by himself that way, not trying to be worthy of a collegeeducation. "

"Um, " said her sister. "It's fearfully hot in here. "

"I don't see why we ever came, " Aunt Ellen moaned. 

They were near him now and he saw them. For a moment he stared, then gavea nod and reddened to his forehead. 

"Oh, he's blushing!" Chrystie tittered as she returned the bow. "Howperfectly sweet!"

The first sight of them had given Mark a shock as violent as if he hadmet them in an exploration of the South Pole or the heart of a tropicalforest. It took him some minutes to recover, during which he stoodrooted, only his head moving as he watched them borne into the foyer, there caught in merging side currents and carried toward the mainentrance. It was not till they were almost at the door, Chrystie's highblonde crest glistening above lower and less splendid ones, that he cameto life. He did it suddenly, with a sharp reaction, and started inimpetuous pursuit. His first movement--a spirited rush--carried him intoa family, a compact phalanx moving solidly upon the exit. He ran intosomeone, a child, stammered apologies, placated an irate mother, thencraning his neck for his quarry, saw the high blonde head in the distanceagainst the darkness of the street. 

The check was more than physical. It caused a sudden uprush of his oldtimidity and he stood irresolute, in everybody's way, spying at thedistant golden head. It seemed as if they had wanted to avoid him, theyhad gone so quickly, just bowed and been carried on--if only Chrystiewould look back and smile. Standing on his toes, jostled and elbowed, hecaught a glimpse of them, all three, outside the door. They appearedpreoccupied, the two girls talking across Aunt Ellen, with no backwardglances for a young man struggling to reach them--anyone could have seenthey had forgotten his existence. With a set face he turned and made forthe side exit. They had no use for him; he would go home to the placewhere he belonged. 

The bitterness of this thought carried him through the side exit andthere left him. Whatever they felt and however they acted, it was hisduty to see them on the car. Boor! clod! goat! He could still catch themif he went round to the front, and he started to do it, facing theemerging throng, battling his way through. That was too slow; he backedout, turned into the street and ran, charging through streams that hadbroken from the main torrent and were trickling away in variousdirections. Rounding the corner he saw he was not too late. There, standing on the curb, were Aunt Ellen and Chrystie, conspicuous in theirornamental clothes, looking in the opposite direction up the street'sanimated vista. He followed their eyes and saw a sight that made himhalt--Lorry, her satin-slippered feet stepping delicately along thegrimy pavements, her pale skirts emerging from the rich sheath of hercloak. Beside her, responding to a beckoning hand, a carriage rattleddown upon Chrystie and Aunt Ellen. They had a carriage and she had hadto go and find it!

With a heart seared by flaming self-scorn, Mark turned and slunk away. Heslid into the crowd's enveloping darkness as into a friendly shelter. Hewanted to hide from them, crawl off unseen like the worm he was. This wasthe least violent term he applied to himself as he walked home, cursingunder his breath, wondering if in the length and breadth of the landthere lived a greater fool than he. There _was_ a mitigatingcircumstance--he had never dreamed of their having a carriage. In hisexperience carriages, like clergymen, were only associated with weddingsand funerals. He thought of it afterward in his room, but it didn't helpmuch--in fact it only accentuated the difference between them. Girls whohad carriages when they went to the Albion were not the kind for lawyers'clerks to dream of. 

Inside the carriage, Aunt Ellen insisted on an understanding with thelivery stable man:

"Running about in the mud in the middle of the night--it's ridiculous!Lorry, are your slippers spoiled?"

"No, Aunt Ellen. There isn't any mud. "

"There might just as well have been. Any time in the winter there'sliable to be mud. Will you see Crowley tomorrow and tell him we won'thave any more drivers who go away and hide in side streets?"

"Yes, I'll tell him, but he wasn't hiding, he was only a little way fromthe entrance. "

"Having no man in the family certainly _is_ inconvenient, " came fromChrystie, and then with sudden recollection: "What happened to Marquis deLafayette? Why didn't he come and get it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. " Lorry was looking out of the window. 

"Well, I must say if we ask him to our parties the least he can do is tofind our hacks. "

"I think so, too, " said Aunt Ellen. "The young men of today seem to haveforgotten their manners. "

"Forgotten them!" echoed Chrystie. "You can't forget what you never had. "

"Oh, do keep quiet, " came unexpectedly from Lorry. "The heat in thatplace has given me a headache. "

Then they were contrite, for Lorry almost never had anything, and theirattentions and inquiries had to be endured most of the way home. 

Crowder, contrary to his expectations, found Pancha in high good spirits. When a piece failed she was wont to display that exaggerateddiscouragement peculiar to the artist. Tonight, sitting in front of hermirror, she was as confident and smiling as she had been in the firstweek of "The Zingara. "

"I'm glad to see you're taking it so well, " he said. "It's pretty hardfollowing on a big success. "

"Oh, it's all in the day's work. You can't hit the bull's eye every time. The management are going to dig down into their barrel next week, huntingfor another gypsy rôle. They want me again in my braids and my spangles. They liked my red and orange--Spanish colors for the Spanish girl. "

She flashed her gleaming smile at him and he thought how remarkably wellshe was looking, getting handsomer every day. Her words recalledsomething he had wanted to ask her and had forgotten. 

"Talking of red and orange, how about that anonymous guy that sent youthe flowers? You remember, back in the autumn--a lot of roses with amotto he got out of a Christmas cracker?"

She had her comb in her hand and dropped it, leaning down to scratchround for it on the floor. 

"Oh, _him_--he's just petered out. "

"Did you find out who he was?"

Up to this Pancha had been nearly as truthful with Crowder as she waswith her father. But now a time had come when she felt she must lie. Thatsecret intimacy, growing daily dearer and more dangerous, could not beconfessed. Crowder had been mentor as well as friend and she feared notonly his curiosity but his disapproval. He would argue, plead, interfere. She disliked what she had to say, and as she righted herself, comb inhand, her face was flushed. 

"Yes, a chap from the East. He just admired from afar and went his way. "

"Oh, he's gone. " Crowder was satisfied. "Seen your father lately?"

"No, but I had a letter to say he'd be down soon. "

The color in her face deepened. She knew that her father would ask evenmore searching questions than Crowder and she was prepared to lie to him. Biting her lip at the thought, she looked down the long spray of lashesdefined on her cheeks. Crowder stared at her, impressed anew by thatsuggestion of radiant enrichment in her appearance. 

"I say, old girl, " burst from him, "do you know you're lookingsomething grand. "

She raised her lids and let her glance rest on him, soft and deep. It wasa strange look to come from Pancha's bold, defiant eyes. 

"Am I?" she said gently. "I guess I'm happy, that's all. "

"Well, it's powerful becoming, believe me. And why are you, especiallywith 'The Gray Lady' a frost?"

She rose, the red kimono falling straight about her lithe, narrow shape, then stretched, a slow spread of arms, languid and catlike. Pressing herhands on her eyes she said from smiling lips:

"Oh, there's no particular reason. It just happens so. I'm getting tofeel sure of myself--that's what, I guess. Now run along, old son, I'msleepy. 'The Gray Lady' does it to me as well as the audience. Good-night. "

Crowder was not the only one who had noticed Pancha's improved looks andhigh spirits. Behind the scenes the failure of "The Gray Lady" hadproduced dejection and rasped tempers. She alone seemed to escape theprevailing gloom. She came in at night smiling, left a trail of notesbehind her as she walked to her dressing room, and from there clearscales and mellow bars rose spasmodically as she dressed. Usually holdingherself aloof, she was friendly, made jokes in the wings, chatted withthe chorus, and when she left the old doorkeeper was warmed by her gaygood-night. 

Her confreres were puzzled; it was quite a new phase. They had notliked Miss Lopez at first; she gave herself airs and had a bad temper. Once she had slapped a chorus woman who had spoiled her exit; at arehearsal she had been so rude to the tenor the stage manager had hadto call her down and there had been a fight. Now they wondered andwhispered--under circumstances conducive to ill-humor she was as sweetas honey dropping from the comb. They set it down to temperament;everybody from the start had seen she had it, and anyway there wasn'tanything else to set it down to. 

What they saw was only a gleam, a thin shining through of the glorywithin. It irradiated, permeated, illumined her, escaping in those smilesand words and snatches of song because she could not hold it in. As shehad told Crowder, she was happy, and she had never been before. She cameout of sleep to the warming sense of it. It stayed with her all day, fedon a note, a telephone message, a gift of flowers, fed on nothing but herown thoughts. 

It was the happiness found in little of one who has been starved, nourished by trifles, tiny seeds flowering into growths that touched thesky. She did not see Mayer as often as formerly and when she did theirtalk was on other things than love. In fact he was rather shy of thesubject, did not repeat his kiss, was more comrade than wooer. But hesought her, he had told her why and that was enough. What he had said shebelieved, not alone because it seemed the only reasonable explanation ofhis actions, but because she wanted to believe it. He had come, anonchalant wayfarer, and grown to care, said at last the words she waslonging to hear, and, hearing, she felt them true and was satisfied. 

And then she had drifted, content to rest in the complete comfort of herbelief. The moment was enough, and she stood on the summit of each one, swaying in blissful balance. Vaguely she knew she was moving on a finalmoment, on a momentous, ultimate decision, and she neither cared norquestioned. Like a sleepwalker she advanced, inevitably drawn, seeing ablurred dazzle at the path's end in which she would finally be absorbed. 

Everything that had made her Pancha Lopez, familiar to herself, was gone. She was somebody else, somebody filled with a brimming gladness, with noroom for any other feeling. Her old, hard self-sufficiency seemed a poor, bleak thing, her high head was lowered and gloried in its abasement. Allthe fierce, combative spirit of the past had vanished; even her work, heretofore her life, was executed automatically and pushed aside, anobstruction between herself and the sight and thought of Mayer. The lawsthat had ruled her conduct, the pride that had upheld her, melted likecobwebs before the sun. She lived to please a man she thought loved herand that she loved to the point where honor had become an empty word andself-respect transformed to self-surrender. Whatever he would ask of hershe was ready to give. The Indian's blood prompted her to the squaw'simpassioned submission, the outlaw's to a repudiation of the law and thelaw's restraints. 

Early in January her father came down and when he asked her about Mayershe lied as she had to Crowder. She told him she still saw the man butthat his devotion had lapsed, giving evidence of a languishing interest. When she saw her father's relief she had qualms, but her lover's voice onthe phone, asking her to dine with him that night, dispersed them. Allthe lies in the world then didn't matter to Pancha. 

So she drifted, not caring whither, only caring that she should seeMayer, listen to him, dwell on his face, try to catch his wish before itwas spoken. Her outer envelope was the same, performed the same tasks, lived in the same routine, but a new creature, a being of fire, dweltwithin it. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE NIGHT RIDER

February had been a month of tremendous rains. Days of downpour weresucceeded by days of leaden skies and damp, brooding warmth, and then theclouds opened again and the downpour was renewed. Along the Mother Lodethe rivers ran bank-high and the camps sat in lagoons, the sound ofrunning water rising from the old flumes and ditches. Down every gullythat cut the foothills came streams, loud-voiced and full of haste asthey rushed under the wooden bridges. 

It was a night toward the end of the month, no rain falling now, but thesky sagging low with a weight of cloud. An eye trained to such obscuritycould have made out the landscape in looming degrees of darkness, massesrising against levels, the fields a shade lighter than the trees. Thesewere discernible as huddlings and blots and caverned blacknesses intowhich the road dove and was lost. To the left the chaparral rose from thetrail's edge in dense solidity, exhaling rich earth scents and thearomatic breath of pine and bay. The roadbed was torn to pieces, rutsknee-high; the stones, washed loose of soil, ringing to the blow of amoving hoof. 

A rider, advancing slowly, had noticed this and with a jerk of his rein, directed his horse to the oozy grass along the side. Here, noiseless, man and beast passed, a moving blackness against stationary black, leaves and branches brushing against them. Neither heeded this; bothwere used to rough ways and night traveling and to each every foot ofthe road was familiar. 

Under a roof of matted branches they drew up; the horse, the reins loose, stretched its neck, blowing softly from widened nostrils. The man took amatch box from his pocket, struck a light and looked at his watch--it wasclose on ten. The flame, breaking out in a red spurt, gilded the limbs ofthe overarching trees, the glistening leaves, the horse's glossy neck andthe man's face. It glowed beneath the brim of his hat like a portraitexecuted on a background of velvet varnished by the match's gleam--it wasthe face of Garland the outlaw. 

His hand again on the rein sent its message and the horse paddedsoftly on through the arch of trees to the open road. Had it beenbrighter Garland could have seen to the right rolling country, fieldssprinkled with oak domes, falling away to the valley, to the left thechaparral's smothering thickness. Between them the road passed, a paleskein across the backs of the foothills, connecting camps and littletowns. Farther on the Stanislaus River, rushing down from the Sierra, would crook its current, to run, swift and turbulent, beyond thescreen of alders and willows. 

The road ascended, and on a hillcrest he again halted and looked back, listening. Unimpeded by trees, the thick air holding all sound close tothe earth, he could hear far-distant noises. The bark of a dog cameclear--that was from Alec Porter's ranch on the slopes toward thevalley. Facing ahead he caught, faint and thin, the roar of the CrystalStar's stamp mill. Over to the right--the road would loop down toward itat the next turning--was Columbus, gutted and dying slowly among itsabandoned diggings. 

He avoided this turn, taking a branch trail that slanted through thethicket, wet leaves slapping against him, the horse's hoofs sucking intothe spongy turf. It was still and dark, the air drenched with the odorsof mossed roots and pungent leaves. When he emerged, the lights ofColumbus shone below, a small sprinkling of yellow dots gathered aboutthe central brightness of the Magnolia Saloon. The night was so still hecould hear the voices of roysterers straggling home. 

Presently the rushing weight of the Stanislaus River swept along thenearby bank. He could hear the rustle of its current, the wash of itswaves sucking and nosing on the stones; feel the breath of its swollentide chilled by mountain snows. It was up to the alder bushes, nearlyflood high, cutting him off from a detour he had hoped to make--he wouldhave to ride through San Marco. He put a spur to his horse and took itboldly, hoping the mud would dull the sound of his passage. The cabinsand shacks that fringed the town were dark but in the main street therewere lights, from the ground floor of the Mountain Hotel where he caughta glimpse of shirt-sleeved men playing cards, from the Pioneer Saloon, whence the jingling notes of a piano issued. There was less mud than hehad expected and the thud of his flying hoofs was flung from wall to walland called out a burst of barking dogs, and a startled face behind adrawn curtain in a red-lit cabin window. 

Then away into the darkness--round Chinese Crossing, under the eavesof the spreading plant of the Northern Light, up a hill and down onthe other side through a tunnel of trees to the Stanislaus Ferry. Ashe passed into their hollow he could hear the thunder of the LizzieJ's stamps across the river, beating gigantic on the silence, shakingthe night. 

The stream showed a flat space between bulwarked hills, one yellowspot--the light in the ferryman's window--shining like an eye unwinkingand vigilant. Garland's hail was answered from within the shack, and theferryman came out, a dog at his heels, a lantern in his hand. There was ashort conference, and the lantern, throwing golden gleams on the ground, swung toward the flat boat, the horse following, his steps, precise andcareful, ringing hollow on the wooden boards. 

They slid out into the current, the boat vibrating to the buffets oflittle waves, the dog running from side to side, barking excitedly. Theferryman, the lantern lifted, took a look at his passenger. 

"Mighty wet weather we're having, " he said. 

"Terrible. Don't ever remember it worse. "

The light of the lantern fell on the horse's mud-caked legs. 

"Looks as if you'd rid quite a ways. "

"From this side of Jackson. "

"That's some ride. Guess y'ain't met many folks. "

"Not many. Staying indoors this weather, all that can. "

"Belong round here?"

"No--back up toward the Feather. "

They were in midstream, the scow advancing with a tremulous motion, spray springing across its low edges and showering the men. The dog, who had come to a standstill, his forepaws on the gunnel, his facetoward Garland, suddenly broke into a furious barking. Garland shiftedin his saddle. 

"What's got your dog?" he said gruffly. "He ain't afraid, is he?"

"Afraid? Don't know the meanin' of the word. Don't mind him--it's hisway; lived so long with me he acts sort of notional. Some days he'll barklike now at a passenger and then again he won't take no notice. Justsomethin' about you, can't tell what, but he scents somethin' that makeshim act unfriendly. "

"What do you suppose it is?" growled the other. 

The ferryman laughed. 

"Oh, you can't ever tell about them animals--they got a thinkin' outfitof their own. Goin' far?"

"To Angels. "

"Well, hope you'll get there all right. Sort of black weather to betraveling specially if you got money on you. Knapp and Garland's bound toget busy soon. "

It was the passenger's turn to laugh. 

"I'm not the sort they're after. It's big business for them. Everseen 'em?"

"Search me. I guess mebbe I've taken 'em acrost, but how was I to know?"

The scow bumped against its landing and man and horse embarked. There wasan interchange of rough good-nights, interrupted by the dog's frenziedbarking. As the boat pulled out into the stream, the ferryman called backabove the noise of the water:

"Looks like he had somethin' on you. I ain't ever seen him act so uglybefore. " Then to the dog, "Quit that, Tim, or I'll bust your jaw. "

Garland mounted the slope. The sound of the river behind him was drownedby the roar of the Lizzie J's mill. Its rampart-like wall towered abovehim, cut by the orange squares of windows, the thunder of its stamps, agiant's feet crushing out the gold, pounding tremendous on the nocturnalsolitude. As the horse snorted upward, digging its hoofs among theloosened stones, he looked up at it. Millions had been made there;millions were still making. Men in distant cities were being enriched bythe golden grains beaten free by those giant feet. Once he had thoughtthat he, too, might ravish the earth's treasure, become as they were byhonest labor. 

An unexpected surge of depression suddenly rose upon him. He set it downto the barking of the dog, for, after the manner of those who lead thelonely lives of the outlawed, he was superstitious. He believed in signsand portents, lucky streaks, the superior instinct of animals, and as herode he brooded uneasily. Did it simply mean menace, or had the bruteknown him for what he was and tried to warn his master?

He muttered an oath and told himself, as he had done often of late, thathe was growing old. Time and disappointment were wearing on the nervethat had once been unbreakable. In the past he had seen his path goingunimpeded to its goal; now he recognized the possibility of failure, sawobstructions, crept cautious where he had formerly strode undismayed, hesitated where he had once leaped. He jerked himself upright andexpelled his breath in an angry snort. This was no time for such musings. At Sheeps Bar, ten miles farther on, he was to meet Knapp and plan forthe holdup of the stage that tomorrow night would carry treasure to theCimarroon Mine at North Fork. 

It was after midnight when the few faint lights of Sheeps Bar came intoview. The place was small, a main street flanked by frame houses, awooden arcade jutting over the sagging sidewalk. Sleep held it; blankwindowpanes looked over the arcade's roof, the one bright spot theoblong of light that shone from the transom over the door of thePlanters Hotel. Mindful of dogs he kept to the soft earth near thesidewalk, shooting glances left and right. But Sheeps Bar was dead;there was not a stir of life as he passed, not the click of a latch, nota face at door or window. 

Beyond the arcade the town broke into a scattering of detached houses. The last of these, a one-story cabin staggering to its fall on the edgeof a stream, sent forth a pale ray from a wide, uncurtained window. Across the pane, painted in blue, were the words "Hop Sing, ChineseRestaurant, " and within the light of a kerosene lamp showed a barewhitewashed room set forth in tables and having at one end a smallcounter and cash register. On the window ledge stood a platter of tomalesand a pile of oranges. 

Garland drew up, listened, then dropped off his horse and led it towardthe hovel. Before he reached it a side door opened and a head wasthrust out. A whispered hail passed and the owner of the heademerged--a Chinaman, shadow-thin and shadow-noiseless. He slippedthrough the wet grass and with an "All 'ighty, boss, " that might havebeen a murmur of the stirred leaves, took the horse and disappearedwith it toward a rear shed. 

Garland went to the cabin. The room which he entered opened into therestaurant and was the Chinaman's den. Its only furniture was a bunk witha coil of dirty blankets, a chair and table, on which stood an addingmachine, the balls running on wires. Near it was the ink well and bamboopen and small squares of paper covered with Chinese characters. One doorled into the restaurant and another into the kitchen. In this room, litby a wall lamp, its window giving on a tangled growth of shrubs, satKnapp sprawled before the stove. 

Their greetings were brief, and drawing up to the table they began theplans for the next night's work. Through the window the air came cool andmoist, fighting with the odors of cooking and the rank, stifling Chinesesmell. On the silence without rose the horses' soft whinnyings to oneanother and then the Chinaman's returning passage through the grass andthe rasp of the closing door. He put a bottle and glasses before the men, slipped speechless into the restaurant, and returned, an animated shadow, with the lamp in his hand. This he set on the table in his own room, andsitting before it, began moving the balls in the adding machine. Upon thelow voices in the kitchen, the dry click of the shifted balls broke insharp staccato, followed by pauses when, with a hand as delicate as awoman's, he traced the Chinese characters on the paper. 

It was he who heard first. His hand, raised to move a line of the balls, hung suspended, his eyes riveted in an agate-bright stare on the wallopposite. He half rose; his meager body stiffened as if the muscles hadsuddenly become steel; his face turned in wild question to the roombeyond. He was up and had hissed a terrified, "Look out, boss, someonecome!" when a rending blow fell on the door. 

For a breath there was stillness, then pandemonium--a sudden burst ofaction following on a moment of paralysis, an explosion of sound andmovement. It all came together--the breaking in of the door, therat-like rush of the men, the crash of falling furniture, of shiveredglass, of dark, scrambling figures, and the blinding flash of arevolver. The Chinaman's face, ape-like in its terror, showed above theblankets of his bunk, Knapp lay on the ground caught by the fallingtable, and in the window jagged edges of glass and a trail of blood onthe sill showed the way Garland had gone. In the doorway the sheriffstood with his leveled revolver, while the voices and trampling of mencame from the shrubs outside. 

CHAPTER XV

THE LAST DINNER

It was depressing weather, rain, rain, and then again rain. For two weeksnow, off and on, people had looked out through windows lashed with finespears or glazed with watery skins which endlessly slipped down the pane. Muddy pools collected and spread across the street, the cars that drovethrough them sending the water in fan-like spurts from their wheels. Downthe high, cobbled hills rivulets felt their way and grass sproutedbetween the granite blocks. A gray wall shut in the city, which showeddimly under the downpour, gardens blossoming, roof shining beyond roof, wet wall dripping on wet wall. 

From his parlor window in the Argonaut Hotel, Boyé Mayer looked down onthe street's swimming length, and then up at the sky's leaden pall. Itwas not raining now but there was no knowing when it might begin again. He yawned and stretched, then looked at his watch--half-past four. Whatshould he do for the rest of the afternoon?

Several times during the last month this problem of time to be passedhad presented itself. The rain had cut him off from stately promenadeson the sunny side of the street and the diversions of San Francisco hadgrown stale from familiarity. The bloom of his adventure was tarnished;he was becoming used to riches, and comfort had lost its first, fine, careless rapture. It was not that he was actually bored, but he saw, asthings were going, he might eventually become so, especially if therain continued. So far, the green tables and Pancha had held _off_ thisundesired state, but like all attractive pastimes both had theirdangers. His luck at the green tables had been so bad that he hadresolved to give them up, and that made the menace of boredom loomlarger. Life in San Francisco in the height of the wet season, withcards denied him and Pancha only to be visited occasionally, was notwhat it had promised to be. 

He had thought of leaving, going to the South, and then decided againstit. There were several reasons why it was better for him to stay. One wasthe money in Sacramento. This had become an intruding matter of worry andindecision. It was not only that the store was so greatly diminished--hislosses had made astonishing inroads in it--but he feared its discoveryand he hated his trips there. He always spent a night in the place, on astone-hard bed in a dirty, unaired room, and in his shabby clothes wasforced to patronize cheap eating houses where the fare sickened him. Hemanaged it very adroitly, carrying in his old suitcase the hat, coat, shoes and tie he had bought in Sacramento, changing into them in themen's washroom in the Sacramento depot, and emerging therefrom the HarryRomaine who rented room 19 in the Whatcheer House. 

Of course there was danger of detection, and faced by this and the memoryof his discomfort on the train down, he told himself he would certainlymove the money. But back in the Argonaut Hotel his resolution weakened. Where would he move it to? He could bank it in San Francisco, but hereagain there were perils, of a kind he dreaded even more than theSacramento trips. There was that question of references, and he fearedthe eyes of men, honest men, business men. He kept away from them; theywere shrewd, bitterly hostile to such as he. So he invariably slippedback into a state where he said he must do something, waited until he hadonly a few dollars left, then, cursing and groaning, pulled the oldclothes out of his trunk, packed his battered suitcase and told NedMurphy he was going into the interior "on business. "

But outside all these lesser boredoms and anxieties there was anotherbigger than all the rest and growing every day: After the money wasgone, what?

It was a question that, in the past, he would have sheered away from as ahorse shies from an obstacle intruding on a pleasant road. But time hadtaught him [Note: last word, 'far-righted' must be a typo] manythings--the picaroon was becoming far-sighted; the grasshopper hadlearned of the ant. The spring of his youth was gone; the renewal of theold struggle too horrible to contemplate. And he would have tocontemplate it or decide on something to forestall it. That was what hehad been thinking about for the past week, shut up in his hotel room, hishands deep in his pockets, his eyes morosely fixed on space. 

At the Alston dinner an idea had germinated in his mind. It was only aseed at first, then it began to grow and had now assumed a definiteshape. At first he had toyed with it, viewed it from different angles assomething fantastic and irrelevant, but nevertheless having a piquancy ofits own. Then his ill-luck and that necessary facing of the situationmade him regard it more closely, compelled him to award it a seriousconsideration. He did not like it; it had almost no point of appeal; itwas not the sort of thing, had chance been kinder, he would ever havecontemplated. But it was inescapable, the angel with the flaming swordplanted in his path. 

Reluctant, with dragging feet, he had gone to call on the Alston girls. There had been several visits before that in return for continuedhospitalities; but this was the first of what might be called a secondseries, the first after the acceptance of his idea. It had driven him toit, hounded him on like Orestes hounded by the furies. When he got therehe saw behind the hounding the hand of fate, for instead of finding bothsisters at home or both sisters out, he found Chrystie in and alone. Shehad talked bashfully, a shy-eyed novice with blush-rose cheeks andfingers feeling cold in the pressure of farewell. The hand of fatepointed to her. If it had been the other sister the hand would havepointed in vain. From the start he had felt the fundamental thing inLorry--character, brain, vision, whatever you like to call it--upon whichhis flatteries and blandishments would have been fruitless, arrowsfalling blunted against a glittering armor. But this child, thisblushing, perturbed, unformed creature, as soft and fiberless as a skeinof her own hair, was fruit for his plucking. 

That was his idea. 

He had brooded on it all the week, hearing the rain drumming on the roofoutside, smoking countless cigarettes, harassed, balky and beaten. Hethought of it now, his hands deep in his pockets, his chest hollowed, hissullen eyes surveying the hill opposite, up which a cable car crawledlike a large wet beetle. He watched the car till it dipped over thesummit and there was nothing to see but the two shining rails, and theglistening roofs and the shrouded distance. It was like his idea, inexpressibly dreary, a forlorn, monotonous, gray shutting out what oncehad been a bright, engaging prospect. 

He looked again at his watch--not yet half past five--at least an hour topass before dinner. The green tables began to call, and he turned fromthe window to the dusk of the room, tempted and restless. He must dosomething or he would answer the call, and he searched his resources fora diversion at once enlivening and inexpensive. The search brought up onPancha. She and her mysteries were always amusing; her love flatteredhim; blues and boredom died in her presence. Dangerous she could be, butdangerous he would not let her be--his was the master mind, cold, self-governing, and self-sure. One more swing around the circle withPancha and then good-by. Soon he "would give his bridle rein a shakebeside the river shore. " At that he laughed--"river shore" aptlydescribed San Francisco under present conditions--and laughing went tothe telephone and called her up. He caught her at rehearsal and made arendezvous for dinner in the banquet room at Solari's. 

Solari's was a small Italian restaurant in the business quarter which hadgained fame by the patronage of the local illuminati known to press andpublic as "Bohemians. " They foregathered nightly there, the plate glasswindow giving a view of them, conspicuously herded at a large centraltable, to interested passersby. To the right of the window was a door, giving on a narrow staircase which led up to the second floor and whatSolari called his "banquet room. " Here on state occasions the Bohemiansentertained celebrities, secretly fretted by the absence of theiraccustomed audience. They had decorated the walls with samples of theirart, and when Eastern visitors came to Solari's, they were always takenup there, and expected to say that San Francisco reminded them of Paris. Mayer liked the place and had dined there several times with Pancha, always in the banquet room. There were newspaper men among the Bohemianswho would have found material in the simultaneous appearance of thepicturesque Mr. Mayer and the Albion's star. 

He had ordered the dinner, had the fire lighted and the table spread whenshe came. She had run up the stairs and was out of breath, bringing in awhiff of the night's fresh dampness, and childishly glad to be there. Shemade no attempt to hide it, laughing as she slid out of her coat andtossed her hat on a chair. With her feet in their worn, high-heeled shoesheld out to the fire, her hands rosily transparent against the blaze, shefilled the room with a new magic and charm, sent waves of well-beingthrough it. They warmed and lifted Mayer from his worries, and he wasnearly as glad that he had asked her to come as she was to obey hissummons. In his relief that she was able to dissipate his gloom, heforgot his caution and laughed with her, the laugh of the lover rejoicingin the sight of his lady. 

The dinner was good and they were merry over it. Under the shaded lightabove the table he could see her color fluctuate and the quick droop ofher eyes as they met his, and these evidences of his power added to hisenjoyment. The inhibition he had put upon himself was for the timelifted, and he spoke softly, caressingly, words that made the rose in hercheeks burn deeper and her voice tremble in its low response. Alwayskeener in his chase of money than of women, his cold blood was warmed andhe permitted himself to grow tender, safe in the thought that this wouldbe their last dinner. 

At seven she had to go, frankly reluctant, making no pretense to hideher disinclination. She rose and went to where her coat lay over achair, but he was before her, and snatching it up held it spread for herenveloping. With her arms outstretched she slid into it, then felt himsuddenly clasp her. Weakened, like a body from which the strength hasfled, she drooped against him, her head fallen back on his shoulder. Heleaned his cheek against hers, rubbing it softly, then bending lowertill he found her lips. 

Out of his arms she steadied herself with a hand on the mantelpiece, theroom blurred, no breath left her for speech. For a moment the place wasnoiseless save for the small, friendly sounds of the fire. Then she askedthe woman's eternal question, "Do you love me?"

"What do you think?" he said, surprised to hear his voice shakenand husky. 

"Oh, Boyé, " she cried and turned on him, clasping her hands against herheart, a figure of tragic intensity, "is it true? Do you mean it?"

He nodded, silent because he was not sure of what to say. 

"It's not a lie? It's not just to get me because I'm Pancha Lopez who'snever had a lover?"

"My dear girl!" he gave his foreign shrug. "Why all this unbelief?"

"Because it's natural, because I can't help it. I want to trust, I wantto believe--but I'm afraid, I'm afraid of being hurt. " She raised herclasped hands and covered her face with them. From behind their shieldher voice came muffled and broken, "I couldn't stand that. I've nevercared before, I never thought I would--anyway not like this. It's comeand got me--it's got me down to the depths of my heart. "

"Why, Pancha, " he said, exceedingly uneasy, sorry now he'd asked her, sorry he'd come. "What's the sense of talking that way--don't be sotragic. This isn't the stage of the Albion. "

"No, it's not. " She dropped her hands and faced him. "It's reallife--it's _my_ real life. It's the first I've ever had. " And suddenlyshe went to him, caught his arm, and pressing against it looked withimpassioned eyes into his. 

"Do you love me--not just to flirt and pay compliments, but truly--towant me more than any woman in the world? Tell me the truth. "

Her eyes held his, against his arm he could feel the beating of herheart. Just at that moment the truth was the last thing he could tell. 

"Little fool, " he said softly, "I love you more than you deserve. "

Her breath came with a sob; she drooped her head and, resting her faceagainst his shoulder, was still. 

Over her head he looked at the fire, with his free hand gently caressingher arm. He did not want to say any more. What he wanted was to get away, slide out of range of her eyes and her questions. It was his own faultthat the interview had developed in a manner undesired and unintended, but that did not make him any the less anxious to end it. Presently shelifted her head and drew back from him. Stealing a look at her, he sawshe was pale and that her eyes were wet. She put her fingers on them, pressing on the lids, her lips set close, her breast shaken. 

In dread of another emotional outburst he looked at his watch and said ina brisk, matter-of-fact tone, "Look here, young woman, this is awfully jolly, but I don't want to bethe means of making trouble for you at the Albion. Won't you be late?"

She started and came to life, throwing a bewildered glance about herfor her hat. 

"Yes, I'd forgotten. I must hurry. It takes me an hour to make up. "

Immensely relieved, he handed her the hat, saw her put it on withindifferent pulls and pats, and followed her to the door. At the top ofthe stairs he pushed by her with a laughing, "Here, let me go first. It's my job to lead. "

She drew aside, and as he passed her he caught her eyes, lighted with asoul-deep tenderness, the woman's look of surrender. Then as he descendeda step below her, she leaned down and brushed her cheek along hisshoulder, a touch light as the passage of a bird's wing. 

"It's my job to follow where you lead, " she whispered. 

They went down the narrow staircase crowded close together, arm againstarm, silent. In the doorway she turned to him. 

"Don't come with me. I want to be alone. I want to understand what'shappened to me. You can think of me going through the streets and sayingover and over, 'I'm happy, I'm happy, I'm happy--' And you can thinkit's because of you I'm saying it. "

She was gone, a small, dark figure, flitting away against the glisteningsplotches of light that broke on the street's wet vista. 

Not knowing what else to do, Mayer walked home. He was angry witheverything--with Pancha, with himself, with life. He thought of herwithout pity, savage toward her because he had to put her away from him. Joy came to him with outstretched hands, and he had to turn his back onit; it made him furious. He was exasperated with himself because so muchof his money was gone, and he had to do what he didn't want to do. Themoney instead of making things easier had messed them into an enragingtangle. Life always went against him--he saw the past as governed by amalevolent fate whose business had been a continual creating of pitfallsfor his unwary feet. 

One thing was certain, he must have done with Pancha. Fortunately forhim, it would not be hard. He would give his bridle rein a shake besidethe river shore, and let the fact that he had gone sink into her, not ina break of brutal suddenness, but by slow, illuminating degrees. For ifhe was to carry out his idea--and there was nothing else to bedone--there must be no entanglements with such as Pancha. He must befoot-loose and free, no woman clinging to that shaken bridle rein withpassionate, restraining hands. 

Cross and dispirited he entered the hotel and mounted to his room. Hewas beginning to hate it, its hideous hotel furniture, the memory ofhours of ennui spent there. Against his doorsill the evening paper lay, and picking it up he let himself in and lighted the gas. On the mantelthe small nickel clock seemed to start out at him, insolentlyproclaiming the hour, half past seven. He groaned in desperation andcast the paper on the table. It had been folded once over, and as itstruck the marble, fell open. Across the front page in glaring blackletters he read the words, "Knapp, the bandit, caught at Sheeps Bar. "

CHAPTER XVI

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

That night Mayer could not sleep. He kept assuring himself there wasnothing to fear, yet he did fear. Dark possibilities rose on hisimagination--in his excitement at finding the treasure he might haveleft something, some betraying mark or object. Was there any way inwhich the bandits could have obtained a clew to his identity; could theyhave guessed, or discovered by some underground channel of espionage, that he was the man who had robbed them? Over and over he told himselfit was impossible, but he could not lift from his spirit a dread thatmade him toss in restless torment. With the daylight, his nervessteadied, and a perusal of the morning papers still further calmed him. Only one man had been caught--Knapp. Garland had broken through thewindow, and with the darkness and his knowledge of the country to aidhim, had made his escape. The sheriff's bullet had not done its work; noman seriously wounded could have eluded the speed and vigilance of thepursuit. A posse was now out beating the hills, but with the longstretch of night in his favor he had slipped through their fingers andwas safe somewhere in the chaparral or the mountains beyond. If hisfriends could not help him, a force more implacable than sheriff ordeputy would bring him to justice: hunger. 

The paper minutely described Knapp--young, thirty he said, a giant instrength, and apparently simple and dull-witted. The game up, he acceptedthe situation stoically and was ready to tell all he knew. Then followeda summary of his career, his meeting with Garland six years before andtheir joint activities. Of his partner's life where it did not touch hishe had no information to give. They met up at intervals, planned theirraids, executed them and then separated. He knew of Garland by no othername, had no knowledge of his habitats or of what friends he had amongthe ranchers and townspeople. His description of the elder man wasmeager; all he seemed sure of was that Garland had once been a miner, that he wanted to quit "the road, " and that he was middle-aged, somewherearound forty-five or it might be even fifty. Hop Sing, the Chinaman, wasequally in the dark as to the man who, the papers decided, had been thebrains of the combination. The restaurant keeper had merely been a humbleinstrument in his strong and unscrupulous hand. 

So far there was no mention of the cache in the tules. The reporters, spilled out in the damp discomfort of the county seat, were filling theircolumns with anything they could scrape together, but it was still tooearly for them to have scraped more than the obvious, surface facts. Mayer would have to wait. As he sat at the table, picking at hisbreakfast, his mind darkly disturbed, he wondered if he had not betterget out, and then called himself a fool. He was secure, absolutelysecure. The man of the two who had had some capacity had escaped, and ifhe had had the capacity of Napoleon how could he possibly have anythingto say that would involve Boyé Mayer?

So he soothed himself and, braced by a cup of coffee and a cold bath, began to feel at ease. But he decided to keep to his room till he knewmore. If anything should happen he could break away quickly and he feltsafer under cover. Now, more than ever, he feared the eyes of honest men. 

He had reached this decision when he suddenly remembered Pancha. Thethought of her came with an impact, causing him to stiffen and give fortha low ejaculation. His mind ran with lightning speed over what he hadbeen reading, then flashed back to her. Was this man, this hulkingcountry Hercules, her "best beau, " or was it the other one, Garland, theone who had the brains, and who was old? It was more likely Knapp. Hecould have come to the city, seen her play, been inspired by a passionthat made him daring, been her choice till Mayer had come and conquered. 

Her place in the affair, overlooked in the first shock of his own alarms, rose before him, formidable and threatening. A desire to see her, deeperthan any he had yet experienced, seized him. Her guard would be down;with all her sly skill she could not deceive him now. She would befrightened, she was in danger, she would betray herself. Even if she hadlong ceased to care for the man, she might have some fears for him, andhow much more fears for herself? As he realized the perils of herposition, a faint, slow smile curved his lips. It was not of derision butof a cynical comprehension. He saw her scared to the soul, scared ofdiscovery as Knapp's girl, who was aware of his business, who kept tab onhis comings and goings. For all anyone knew some of that money of hers, so thriftily hoarded, might be part of the bandit's unlawful gains. 

"Whew!" he breathed out. "She must be frozen to the marrow!"

But he did not dare go to her till he was more certain of how hehimself stood. 

The next day was Sunday, and on the _Despatch's_ front page appearedKnapp's picture and his story of the rifled cache. Licking along his drylips with a leathern tongue, Mayer read it and then cast the paper on thefloor and sank back in his chair in a collapse of relief. Neither manhad had any suspicion of the identity of the robber; all they knew wasthat their hiding place had been discovered and the treasure stolen. 

He was safe, safer than he had ever felt before. As the tramp, only twopeople had seen him near the marshes, a child and a boy in a ranch yard. Even if either of them should remember and speak of him in relation tothe theft, was there a human being who would connect that tramp with BoyéMayer, gentleman of leisure, in California for his health? He raised hiseyes and encountered his reflection in the mirror. Gathering himself intoan upright posture, he studied it, aristocratic, cold, immeasurablysuperior; then, closing his eyes, he called up the image of himself as hehad been when he crossed the tules. No one, unless gifted with secondsight, could have recognized the one in the other. Dropping back in hischair, he raised his glance to the floriated cement molding on theceiling, from which the chandelier depended, feeling as if borne by apeaceful current into a shining, sunlit sea. 

There was a performance at the Albion on Sunday night, but no rehearsal, and in the gray of the afternoon he went across town to see Pancha. 

He found her in a litter of dressmaking--lengths of material, oldcostumes, bits of stage jewelry, patterns, gold lace, were outspread onchairs, hung from the table, lay in bright rich heaps on the floor. Theshabby room, glowing with the lights on lustrous fabrics, the gloss ofcrumpled silks, the glints and sweeps and sparklings of color, looked asif in the process of transformation at the touch of a magician's wand. Inthe midst of it--the enchanted princess still waiting for the wand'stouch--sat Pancha, in a faded blouse and patched skirt, sewing. Part ofher transformation was accomplished when she saw Mayer. If her clothesremained the same, the radiance of her face was as complete as if thespell was lifted and she found herself again a princess encountering herlong-lost prince. 

His first glance fell away startled from that radiant face. There wasnothing on it or behind it but joy. He pressed a hand soft and clinging, encircled a body that trembled under his arm and in which he could feelthe thudding of a suddenly leaping heart. Her eyes, searching his, shonewith a deep, pervasive happiness. She was nothing but glad, quiveringly, passionately glad, moving in his embrace toward a chair, babblingbreathless greetings; she had not expected him, she was surprised, shewas--and the words trailed off, her face hidden against his arm. 

It was far from what he had expected and he was thankful for that momentwhen she stopped looking at him and he could master his surprise. Itnearly flooded up again when he saw the paper, news sheet on top, in apile by the sofa where it had evidently been thrown as she lay reading. 

Presently he was in the armchair and she was moving about clearingthings away in a futile, incapable manner, darting like a perturbed birdfor a piece of silk, then dropping it and making a dive for a coil ofchiffon, which she pressed half into a drawer and left hanging over theedge in a misty trail. As she moved, she continued her brokenbabblings--excuses for the room's disorder, costumes for the new pieceto be made, all the time flashing looks at him, watchful, humble, adoring, ready to come at his summons of word or hand. Finally, thematerials thrown into hiding places, the dresses heaped on the sofa, shecame toward him--a lithe, feline stealing across the carpet--and slippeddown on the floor at his feet. 

"Well, " he said, "what's the news?"

"There isn't any, except that I'm glad to see you. "

She curled her legs under her tailor-fashion, and looked up at him. 

"Nothing's happened to disturb the even tenor of your way?"

"Only rehearsals for the new piece and they don't bother me now. That's all that ever happens to me, except for a gentleman caller nowand again. "

She caught his eye, and, her hands clasped round one knee, swayed gently, laughing in pure joy. He did not join in, adjusting his thoughts to thisnew puzzle. Leaning against the chair back, the afternoon light yellow onhis high, receding temples and the backward brush of his hair, his lookwas that of a fond, rather absent-minded amusement such as one awards tothe antics of a playful child. To anyone watching him his lack ofresponse would have suggested a preoccupation in more pregnant matters. Receiving no answer, she went on:

"Only one gentleman caller, one sole alone gentleman, named Mayer, who, Ithink, likes to come here. " She paused, but again there was no answer andshe finished, addressing the carpet, "Or maybe I just imagine it, and heonly comes dull Sunday afternoons when there's nowhere else to go. "

"Oh, silly, unbelieving child!" came his voice, slightly distrait it istrue, but containing sufficient of the lover's chiding tenderness to fillher with delight. 

But this was not what had brought him. The interview started, it was hisbusiness now or never to solve the enigma. He stirred in his chair and, raising a languid hand, pointed to the paper. 

"I see you've been reading the _Despatch_. "

"Um-um--this morning. "

"Very good story, that one on the front page, about the bandit chap. "

"Knapp? Yes, bully. They've got him at last. It was exciting, wasn't it?Like a novel. I don't often read the papers, but I did read that. "

She gave no evidence, either of agitation, or of any especial interest. Unclasping her hands from about her knee, she turned a gold bracelet thathung loose on her wrist, watching the light slide on its surface. Herface was gently unconcerned, serene, almost pensive. The man's eyesexplored it, searched, scanned it for a betraying sign. 

"Did you notice his picture? A pretty hard-looking customer. "

She nodded, absently looking at the bracelet. 

"He sure was, but they're not all as bad as that. Once down atBakersfield I saw a bandit. They caught him near a place where I livedand the sheriff brought him in there. He looked like a rough sort ofrancher, nothing dangerous about him. "

The expression of pensiveness deepened, increased by a sudden, disturbingthought. Would she tell him about Bakersfield and the horrible life therewith Maria Lopez?

The temptation to be frank with him, to have no secrets, to let himknow her as she was, assailed her. She resolved upon it, drew a deepbreath and said, "I never told you that I once lived in Bakersfield. "

"There are lots of things you never told me. They seem to think the otherfellow--what's his name--Garland--has really made his escape. "

The confession died on her lips. She was glad of it; she would tell himlater, some other time, he was too engrossed in the bandits now. 

"I guess that's right. He's got up in the hills where there are ranchersthat'll help him. "

"Would any rancher dare to help him now--wouldn't they be afraid to?"

"Not his kind. Country people aren't as dull as you'd think. I've seen alot of them, when I was a kid and lived round in small places. They actsort of dumb, but some of them are awful smart behind it. "

"Probably get their share of the loot. "

"Sure. That would be the natural thing to keep them quiet, wouldn't it?"

Mayer murmured an assent and drew himself to the edge of his chair. 

"I'd hate to be one of them the way things stand now! The law, when itgets busy, has a pretty long arm. "

"I guess it has, " she agreed, toying with the bracelet. 

"Anyone who has had any sort of dealings, been a friend or a confederateof either of those fellows, is in a desperately ugly position. "

She nodded. He leaned still further forward, his elbows on his knees, hisglance riveted on her. 

"Suppose either of them had a wife or a sweetheart--and it's probablethey have--_that's_ the person the authorities will be after. "

"Yes, " she dropped the bracelet and looked away from him, her expressiondreamy, "it would be. They'll start right in to hunt for them. If theygot them, what would they do to them?"

"Do?" He suddenly stretched an index finger at her, pointing into herface. "If they find a woman or a girl who's had any acquaintance orintimacy with either Knapp or Garland they'll land her in jail so quickshe won't have time to think. Jail, young woman, and after that the thirddegree. And if she's stood in with them--well, it'll be jail for a hometill she's served her term. "

She pondered for a moment, then said softly, "It wouldn't matter if she loved him. "

"Jail wouldn't matter?"

Her glance had been fastened in meditation on the shadows of the room. Now it shifted to him, rapt and luminous. She raised herself to her kneesand laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"Nothing would matter if he was her man. It would be great to stand byhim and suffer for him. It would be happiness to go to jail for him, todie for him. There'd be only one thing that she'd be thinking about--thatwould make her glad to do it--to know that he loved her, Boyé. "

Eye holding eye, she drew him closer till her black-fringed lids loweredand her face, held up to his, offered itself--a symbol of a fuller gift. 

Gathering her in his arms, he rose and drew her to her feet. Pressedagainst him, shaken by the beating of the heart that leaped at his touch, she again breathed the eternal question, "Do you love me"--words thatcome from under-layers of doubt in the despairingly impassioned. 

He reassured her as the unloving man does, lying to get away, soothingwith kisses, eager to break loose from arms that are unwelcome and yettempt. He played his part like a true lover and at the door was genuinelystirred when he saw there were tears in her eyes. He had not guessed shecould be so tender, that her hard exterior hid such depths of sweetness. His parting embrace might have deceived a more love-learned woman, and heleft her with a slight, unwonted sense of shame in his heart. 

Away from her, where he could think, he pushed the shame aside as he wasready to push her. The fire she had kindled in him died; the woman hehad clasped and kissed ceased to figure as a being to desire and becamean enigma to solve. 

The fate of the bandits had touched no vulnerable spot in her. She hadbeen unmoved by it. Even did she adore Mayer so ardently and completelythat his presence was an anodyne for every other thought, she would haveshown, she _must_ have shown, some disturbance. He had known women wholived so utterly in the moment that the past lost its reality, was asdissevered from the present as though it had never existed. Was she oneof these? Could her relation--whatever it was--with either of the outlawshave been so erased from her consciousness that she could talk of hisdanger with a face as unconcerned as the one she had presented to Mayer'svigilant eye?

It was impossible. There would have been a betrayal, a quiver of memory, a flash of apprehension--And suddenly, gripped by conviction, he stoppedin the street and stood staring down its length. 

Night was coming, the gray spotted with lamps. Each globe a sphere ofpinkish yellow, they stretched before him in a line that marched into adistance of mingled lights and more accentuated shadows. He looked alongthem as if they were bearing his thoughts back over the past, every globea station in the retrospect, stage by stage advancing him toward a finalpoint of certainty. 

She didn't know!

It formed in a sentence, detached and exclamatory, in his mind, and hestood staring at the lamps, people jostling him and some of them turningto look back. 

Now that he had guessed it everything became clear. It was like a pieceof machinery suddenly supplied with a lacking wheel which moved it toinstant action. He walked forward, seeing all the disconnected elementstake their places, seeing the whole, harmonious, intelligently relatedand extremely simple. That was what had led him astray. He was not usedto simple solutions; intricate byways, complex turnings and doublings, were what he was trained to. Working along the familiar lines, he hadoverlooked what should have been easily discerned. 

The man loved her, wanted to stand well with her and had deceived her asto his occupation. And it was the older one--Knapp's picture had been inthe paper, she had seen it and it had meant nothing to her. So it wasGarland, the chap with the brains, on toward fifty--but these mountainmen with their outdoor life and unspent energies held their youth long. His imagination, stirred to unwonted activity, pictured him, an outcast, hunted and hiding in the mountain wilderness. As he had smiled at thethought of Pancha's terrors, he smiled now, and again it was a curving ofthe lips that had no humor behind it. It was the bitter smile of anunderstanding that has no sympathy and yet has power to comprehend. 

As for himself, he was out of it, the mystery was solved and he could gohis way in peace of mind. It was a fortunate ending, come just in time. There was no need now for any more folly or philandering. They were cutoff short, romance snipped by Fate's shears, a full stop put at the lastword of the sentence. He had no fears of Pancha, she knew too much tomake trouble, and anyway there was nothing for her to make trouble about. He had treated her with a consideration that was nothing short ofchivalrous. Even if there had been anyone belonging to her to take him totask he could defend his conduct as that of a Sir Galahad--and therewasn't anyone. 

He felt brisk, light, mettlesome. Troubles that had threatened weredispersed; the future lay fair before him. Relieved of allencumbering obstacles, it extended in clear perspective toward hisidea. With keen, contemplative eye he viewed it at the end of thevista, calculating his distance, gathering his powers to cover it in aswift dash, sure of his success. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING

One afternoon, a week later, Chrystie Alston was crossing Union SquarePlaza. It was beautiful weather, the kind that comes to San Franciscoafter long spells of rain. Across the bay the distances were deep-huedand crystal-clear, the hills clean-edged against a turquoise sky. Greenslopes showed below the dense olive of eucalyptus woods and around theshore were the white clusterings of little towns. Where the water filledin the end of a street's vista it was like an insert of blue enameling, and from the city's high places Mount Diavolo could be seen, a pointedgem, surmounting in final sharpness the hill's carven skyline. 

Chrystie felt the exhilaration of the air and the sun, and walked with abounding, long-limbed swing. She was a glad and prosperous figure, silkskirts swept by scintillant lights eddying back from the curves of herhips, glossy new furs lying soft on her shoulders, and on her bosom--aspot of purple--a bunch of violets. Her eyes were as clear as the sky, and her hair, pressed down by the edge of a French hat, hung in a mistygolden tangle to her brows. No one needed to be told she was rich andcarefree. Her expensive clothes revealed the former, her buoyant step andhappy expression, the latter condition. 

She was halfway across the Plaza when her progress suffered a check. There was a drop in her swift faring, a poised moment of indecision. During the halt her face lost its blithe serenity, showed a falteringuncertainty, then stiffened into resolution. Inside her muff her handsgripped, inside her bodice her heart jumped. Both these evidences ofagitation were hidden and that gave her confidence. Assuming an air ofnonchalance she moved forward, her gait slackened, her eyes abstractedlyshifting from the sky to the shrubs. 

Boyé Mayer, advancing up the path, saw she had seen him and drew near, watchfully amused. Almost abreast of him she directed her glance fromthe shrubs to his face. Surprise at the encounter was conveyed by aslight lifting of her brows, pleasure and greeting by a smile andinclination of the head. Then she would have passed on, but he came to astop in front of her. 

"Oh, don't go by as if you didn't want to speak to me, " he said, andpressed a hand that slid warm out of the new muff. 

Standing thus in the remorseless sunshine she was really very handsome, her skin flawless, her lips as red and smooth as cherries. And yet inspite of such fineness of finish there was no magic about her, no allure, no subtlety. Achieving graceful greetings he inwardly deplored it, notingas he spoke how shy she was and how she sought to hide it under a crudesprightliness. There was a shyness full of charm, a graceful gaucheriedelightful to watch as the gambolings of young animals. But Chrystie wastoo conscious of herself and of him to be anything but awkward andconstrained. 

She was going shopping, but when he claimed a moment--just a moment, hesaw her so seldom--went to the bench he indicated and dropped down on it. Here, a little breathless, sitting very upright, her burnished skirtsfalling deep-folded to the ground, she tried to assume the worldlylightness of tone befitting a lady of her looks in such an encounter. 

"Do you often go this way, through the Plaza?" he asked after they haddisposed of the fine weather. 

"Yes, quite often. When it's a nice day like this I always walk downtown, and it's shorter going through here. "

"It's odd I haven't met you before. This is my regular beat, across hereabout three and then out toward the Park. "

"That's a long walk, " Chrystie said. "You must like exercise. "

"I do, but I also like taking little rests on the way. That is, when Imeet a lady"--his eye swept her, respectfully admiring--"who looks like agoddess dressed by Worth. "

She moved in her flashing silks, making them rustle. 

"Oh, Mr. Mayer, how silly, " was the best she could offer in response. 

"Silly! But why?" His shoulders went up with that foreignness Chrystiethought so bewitching. "Why is it silly to say what's true?"

"But you know it's not--it's just--er--" She wanted to retort with thewitty brilliance that the occasion demanded, and what she said was, "It'sjust hot air and you oughtn't to. "

Then she felt her failure so acutely that she blushed, and to hide itburied her chin in her fur and sniffed at the violets on her breast. 

His voice came, close to her ear, very kind, as if he hadn't noticedthe blush, "Well, then, I'll express it differently. I'll say you're just charming. Will that do?"

"I don't think I am. It sounds like someone smaller. I'm too big to becharming. "

That made him laugh, a jolly ringing note. 

"Whatever _you_ think you are, _I_ think you're the most delightfulperson in San Francisco. "

The silks rustled again. Chrystie lifted her eyes from the violets to thebench opposite from which two Italian women were watching with deepinterest this coquetting of the lordlings. 

"Now you're making fun of me, " she said, like a wounded child. 

"Oh, dear lady, " it was he who was wounded, misunderstood, hurt, "howunkind and how untrue. Could I make fun of anyone I admired, I respected, I--er--thought as much of as I do of you?"

She looked down at her muff. Just for a moment he thought her shyness wasquite winning. 

"I don't know--I don't know you well enough. But you've been everywhereand seen everything, and I must seem so--so--sort of stupid and like akid. I don't know what you think, but I know that's the way I feel whenI'm with you. "

The Italian women were aware of a slight movement on the part of thearistocratic gentleman which suggested an intention of laying his handupon that of the golden-haired lady. Then he evidently thought better ofit, and his hand dropped to the head of his cane. The golden-haired ladyhad seen it, too, and affrighted slid her own into the shelter of hermuff. With down-drooped head she heard the cultured accents of the onlyperfect nugget she had ever met murmur reproachfully. 

"Now it's _you_ who are making fun of _me_. Why, _I'm_ the one who feelsstupid and tongue-tied. I'm the one who comes away from you abashed andembarrassed. And why, do you suppose? Because I feel I've been withsomeone who's so much finer than all the others. Not the pert, smartgirl of dinners and dances, but someone genuine and sincere andsweet"--his glance touched the bunch of violets--"as sweet as thoseviolets you're wearing. "

Chrystie experienced a feeling of astonishment, mixed with an upliftingexaltation. Staring before her she struggled to adjust the familiar senseof her shortcomings with this revelation of herself as a creature ofcompelling charm. She was so thrilled she forgot her pose and murmuredincredulously, "Really?"

"Very really. Why are you so modest, little Miss Alston?"

"I didn't know I was. "

"Wonderfully so--amazingly so. But perhaps it's part of you. It is sosometimes with a beautiful woman. "

"Beautiful? Oh, no, Mr. Mayer. "

"Oh, yes, Miss Alston. "

Chrystie began to feel as if she was coming to life after a long periodof deadness. She had a consciousness of sudden growth, of expanding andoutflowering, of bursting into glowing bloom. A smile that she tried torepress broke out on her lips, the repression causing it to be one-sided, which gave it piquancy. She was invaded by a heady sense of exhilarationand a new confidence, daring, almost reckless. It made it possible forher to quell a rush of embarrassment and lead the conversation like awoman of the world:

"You're mistaken about my being modest. Everybody who knows me well saysI'm spoiled. "

"Who's spoiled you?"

"Lorry and Aunt Ellen and Fong. "

She gave him a quick side glance, met his eyes, and they both laughed, alight-hearted mingling of treble and bass. 

The Italian women breathed deeply on their bench, aware that theinterchanged glances and chimed laughter had advanced the romance on itshappy way. 

"Three people can't do any serious spoiling--there should be at leastfour. Who's Fong?"

"Our Chinaman; he's been with us for centuries. "

"Let me make the fourth. Put me on the list. "

"I think you've put yourself there without being invited. Since we satdown you've done nothing but pay me compliments. "

"Never mind that. Here's a sensible suggestion: I'll judge myself ifyou're spoiled and if I think you are I won't pay you one more. Isn'tthat fair?"

"I think so. "

"Very well. Of course I must know you better, have a talk with you beforeI can be sure. How can we arrange that? Ah--I have it! Some brightafternoon like this we might take a walk together. "

"Yes, we could do that. "

"We might go to the park--it's wonderful there on days like this. "

She nodded and said slowly, "And we could take Lorry. "

"To be sure, if she'd care to come. "

There was a slight pause and he saw by her profile there was doubtin her mind. 

"I don't know about her caring. Lorry doesn't like walking much. "

"Then why ask her to do it?"

She stroked her muff, evidently discomfited. 

"Well, you see, it's this way, I don't think Lorry'd like me to go withyou alone. "

"But why?" He drew himself up from the bench's back, his tone surprised, slightly offended. "Surely having invited me to her house, she couldhave no objection to my going for a stroll with you?"

"No, no--" Her discomfort was obvious now. "It isn't _you_. It's justthat father was very particular and Lorry always tries to do what hewould have liked. "

"My dear young lady, your father's been dead a good many years. Thingshave changed since then; the customs of his day are not the customs ofours. Of course I wouldn't suggest that you go counter to your sister'swishes, but"--he turned away from her, huffy, head high, a gentlemanflouted in his pride--"it's rather absurd from my point of view. Oh, well, we'll say no more about it. "

Chrystie was distracted. It was not only the humiliation of appearingout of date and provincial; it was something much worse than that. Shesaw Boyé Mayer retiring in majestic indignation and not coming back, leaving her at this first real blossoming of their friendship becauseLorry had ideas that the rest of the world had abandoned with hoopskirts and chignons. 

"Why, why, " she stammered, alarm pushing her to the recklessness of thedesperate, "couldn't we go and not tell her? It's--it's--just a prejudiceof Lorry's--no one else feels that way. The Barlow girls, who've beenvery strictly brought up, go walking and even go to the theaterwith"--she was going to say "their nuggets" and then changed with a gaspto--"the men their mother asks to her parties. "

So Chrystie, guileless and subjugated, assisted in the development of theIdea. She made an engagement to meet Mr. Mayer four days later in thePlaza and go with him to see the orchids in the park greenhouse. The HolySpirit orchid was in bloom and she had never seen it. A flower with sucha name as the Holy Spirit seemed to Chrystie in some way to shed anelement of propriety if not righteousness over the adventure. 

It was when they were sauntering toward the end of the Plaza that awoman, coming up a side street, saw them. She was about to cross when hereye, ranging over the green lawns, brought up on them and she stopped, one foot advanced, its heel knocking softly against the curbstone. As thetwo tall figures moved her glance followed them, her head slowly turning. She watched them cross the intersection of the streets, lights chasingeach other up and down the lady's waving skirt and gilding the web ofgolden hair; she watched them pass by a show window, its glassy surfaceholding their bright reflections; she watched their farewells at the doorof a large shop which finally absorbed the lady. Then she faced about, and walked toward the Albion, where a rehearsal was awaiting her. 

That afternoon a week had passed since Pancha had seen her lover. 

During the first three days of it she experienced a still and perfectpeace. She did not want to see him; she had reached a point of completeassurance and was glad to wait there, rest in the joy that had come toher, dwell, awed, on its wonderfulness. In her short periods of leisureshe sat motionless, recalling lovely moments, living them over, sometimesasking herself why he cared for her, then throwing the questionaside--that he did was all that concerned her now. 

On the fourth day her serenity was disturbed very slightly, but she couldnot banish a faint, intruding surprise that she had not heard from him. She tried to smother it by a return to her old interests, but her workhad lost its power to engross and she went through it mechanicallywithout enthusiasm. By the fifth her mental state had changed. She wouldnot admit that she was uneasy, but in spite of her efforts a queer, upsetting restlessness invaded her. Everything was all right, she knewit, but she seemed to be dodging a shadow that fell thinly across thebrightness. That evening she played badly, missed a cue and had no snap. She realized it, saw it in the faces of her fellows, and knew she must dobetter or there would be complaints. 

On the way home she argued it out with herself. She was thinking too muchof Mayer--worrying about nothing--and it was interfering with her work. She oughtn't to be such a fool, but her place at the Albion wasimportant, and a word from him--a line or a phone message--would tone herup, and she would go on even better than before. At an "all night" drugstore she bought a box of pink notepaper and a sachet, and before shewent to bed put the scented envelope in the box and covered them bothwith a sofa pillow to draw out the perfume. 

In the morning, after sniffing delicately at the paper, which exhaled apowerful smell of musk, she sat at her table and wrote him a letter. Shemade several drafts before she attained the tone, jocose and tender, thatwould save her pride and draw from him the line that was to dissipate herfoolish fancies. 

"DEAREST BOYÉ:

"No one has knocked at my door for nearly six days now. Not even sent mea telephone message. But I'm not complaining as maybe the caller may havea lot of things to keep him busy. But I would like a word just so I won'tforget you. I don't want to do that but you know these stage dames dohave sort of tricky memories. So it might be a good idea to give mine ajolt. A post card will do it and a letter do it better, and I guessyourself would do it best of all. 

"Thine, "PANCHITA. "

The next morning his answer came and she forgot that she ever had beenuneasy. The world shone, the air was as intoxicating as wine, the sun abenediction. She kissed the letter and pinned it in her blouse, where itlay against her heart, from which it had lifted all care. The secondfloor of the Vallejo rang to her singing, warbling runs and high, crystalnotes, gushes of melody, and tones clear as a bird's held exultingly. People passing stopped to listen, looking up at the open windows. And yetit was far from a love letter:

"DEAR PANCHA:

"What a brute I must seem. I've been out of town, that's all. I have togo every now and then--business I'm meditating in the interior. I forgotto tell you about it, but it will take up a good deal of my time from nowon. I won't be able to see you as often as I'd like, but as soon as Ihave a spare moment there'll be a knock at your door, or someone waitingin the alley to the stage entrance. Until then _au revoir, _or in yourown beautiful language, _hasta mañana, _

"B. "

If she had seen Mayer and the blonde lady before the receipt of thismissive her alarms would have increased. But the letter with one violentpush had sent her to the top of the golden moment again. She was poisedthere firmly; it would take more than the sight of Mayer in casual confabwith a woman to dislodge her. He knew many people, went to many places;she was proud of his social progress. So undisturbed was she that as shewalked to the theatre she smiled to herself, a sly, soft smile. Howsurprised the lady would be if she knew that the shabby girl unnoticed onthe curb was Boyé Mayer's choice--the Rosamund of his bower, the inmateof his secret garden. 

CHAPTER XVIII

OUTLAWED

The night and the chaparral had made Garland's escape possible. In thosefirst moments, breaking through the thicket with the shots and shouts ofhis pursuers at his back, his mind had held nothing but a frantic fear. Athing of gaping mouth and strained eyes, he had groped and rushed, tornbetween branches, splashed through streams, a menaced animal possessed byan animal's instinct for flight. 

Then a bullet, tearing the leaves above his head, had pulled hisscattered faculties together. He dropped and lay, crawled forward in amoist darkness, rose and made a slantwise dart across the hill's face, crouching as a bullet struck into a nearby trunk. Pausing to listen, hecould hear the voices of his pursuers flung back and forth, sound againstsound, broken, clamorous, the baying of the pack. Against the ground, trickle of water and stir of leaves soft around him, he lay for a second, the breaths coming in rending gasps from his lungs. 

By a series of doublings and loops, he gained the summit and here roseand looked down. The voices were fainter, the trampling among thebranches was drifting toward the right. The lights of the town showed acentral cluster with a scattering of bright, disconnected particles as ifa fiery thing had fallen and burst, sending sparks in every direction. Some of them moved, a train of dancing dots, lanterns carried on therun--the town was roused for the man hunt. 

He went on, down from the crest and then up; the voices died and he wasalone in the vast, enmuffling dark. 

For the time safe, he allowed himself a rest, flat on his back under apine, breathing through open mouth. It was then that he was aware of awet warmth on his neck, and feeling of it with clumsy fingers rememberedthe shot that had followed the breaking of the door. One inch to the leftand he would have been a dead man. As it was, it was only a surface tearthrough the flesh and he sopped at it with his bandanna, muttering andwiping his fingers on the moss. 

Presently he moved on again, one with the woodland creatures in theirnight prowls. He could hear them, cracklings of twigs under their furtivefeet, scurrying retreats before his heavier human tread. Once he stoppedat a cry, a shriek tearing open the silence as the lightning tears thecope of the sky. He knew it well, had heard it often by his camp fire inhis old prospecting days--the yell of a California lion in the mountainsbeyond. The night was drawing toward its last deep hours when he came toa straight uprearing of rock, a ledge, broken and heaved upward in someancient earth-throe. He felt along its face, glazed by water films, close-curtained by shrubs and ferns, found an opening and crawled in. 

There he stayed for a week; saw the sun rise over the sea of pines, wheelacross the sky, drop behind the rock whence its last glow painted everytree top with a golden varnish. Then came evening, long and still, agreat rush of color to the west, birds winging their way homeward, shadows slanting blue over the slopes, brimming purple in the hollows. Then night with its majestic silence and its large, serene stars. He layin the cave mouth looking at them, his thoughts ranging far. Sometimesthey went back to the past and he remembered the deep blue nights inArizona, the white glare of the days. He could see the walls of his ranchhouse, with the peppers in red bunches, Juana in her calico wrapper andPancha playing in the shade. He rose, cursing, sopped his bandanna in thewater trickling from the rock and put it on his wound. It hurt and madehim feverish, a prey to such harassing memories. 

With a piece of cord he found in his pocket he made a trap--a noosesuspended from a bent sapling--and caught a rabbit. This kept him in foodfor two days, then setting it again he broke the cord, and driven byhunger went forth, revolver in hand. He saw fresh deer tracks, and waslucky enough to find his quarry, steal close and shoot it. His hungermade him reckless and he lit a fire, roasting the meat on planted sticks. But the birds came and wheeled about overhead and the specks of movingbirds in the sky can be seen from afar. 

His forces restored by nourishment he grew restless. The loneliness ofthe place oppressed him and he wanted to hear of Knapp. Knapp had beencaught and Knapp would talk and he burned to know what Knapp would say ofhim. He was sure the man knew little; he had foreseen such a catastropheand been as secret as the grave, but Knapp might have picked upsomething. Anyway he wanted to know just how he stood. Food, his greatestneed, supplied, his next was news, someone to tell him, or a newspaper. 

The people who stood in with him were scattered far. Up beyond Angels theGarcias were his friends, and over to the left, on the bend of the rivernear Pine Flat, Old Man Haley, reputed cracked and a survivor of thegreat days of the lode, had been his confederate from the start. ButHaley's shack was too near Pine Flat, and now with a reward probablyoffered, he feared the Garcias--greasers, father and son, not to betrusted. The wisest course was to lie low and keep to himself, anywaytill he knew more. 

So he tracked across the country from landmark to landmark, a cave, anabandoned tunnel, the shell of a ruined cabin. He left the foothills andwent back toward the mountain spurs where ridge rises beyond ridge, andat the bottom of ravines rivers lie like yellow threads. Nature held himaloof, an atom leaving no mark upon it, an intruder on its musingself-engrossment. He moved, secure and solitary, seeing no living thingbut the game he shot and the hawk hanging poised in the blue. Sometimeshe sat for hours watching its winged shadow float over the tree tops. 

Finally he knew he would have to return to the settlements, for his storeof cartridges was almost exhausted. He tried to hoard them, eking out hisdeer meat with roots and berries till body and nerve began to weaken. That decided him and he started back, eating only just enough to give himstrength to get there. He was nearly spent when he found himself oncemore among the chaparral's low growth, looking down on the brown andgreen fields. 

There was a ranch below him whose acres stretched like a patterned clothalong the hill's slant. The house, white-painted, stood in the midst ofcultivated land which he would have to cross to reach it. But driven byhunger he stole down, his way marked by a swaying in the close-packedfoliage. He could see the smoke rising in a blue skein from its chimneyand at night its windows break out in bright squares. He drew closeenough to watch the men go off to their work and the women move, sunbonneted, about the yard. 

The second day, faint and desperate, he ventured; it was midmorning, themen away in the fields till noon. There was not a sound when he reachedthe house, skirted the rear, and walked round to the side where a balconyran the length of the building. Chairs stood here and evidences ofsewing, work baskets, spools and scissors, and a tumbled heap ofmaterial. On the step lay a newspaper and he was stretching his hand forit when he heard the voices of women. 

Through an open door he saw them--two--standing in front of a mirror, onewith her back toward him, in a blouse of pink that she was pulling into awaistband. The other watched her, pins in her mouth, a tape measure overher arm. Both were absorbed, the one in her reflection in the glass, theother in the pink blouse. He trod on the step with a heavy foot andmuttered a gruff "Say, lady. "

The women flashed round and he saw them to be middle-aged and young--amother and daughter evidently. The elder with a quick, defensive movementwalked to the doorway and stood there, blocking it. He heard the youngerexclaim, "A tramp!" and then she came forward, squeezing in beside hermother. Hostility and apprehension were on both their faces. 

"What do you want here?" said the elder sharply. 

"Somethin' to eat, " he answered, trying to make his hoarse tones mild; "Ibin on the tramp for days. "

"No, no, go off, " she cried, waving him away. 

"I'm starved, " he pleaded. "Any bones or scraps'll do me. "

They eyed him, still apprehensive, but evidently impressed by hisappearance. 

"Honest to God it's true, " he said, snatching at his advantage. "Can'tyou see it by the looks of me?"

The girl, thrusting her hand through her mother's arm and drawing herback, answered, "All right. Go round to the kitchen. "

With the words she banged the door and he heard the click of the lock, then their scurrying steps, bangs of other doors and their recedingvoices. In a twinkling he grabbed the paper, thrust it into his coatpocket, and slouched round to the kitchen door. 

"Stay out there, " called the mother from within. "I'll give you food, butI don't want no tramp tracking up my kitchen. "

He could see them cutting bread and chunks of meat, flurried and he knewfrightened. Leaning against a chair was a rifle, placed where he couldsee it. He could have smiled at it had he not been so bound and crampedwith fear. As they cut they interchanged low-toned remarks, and once theelder looked at him frowningly over her shoulder. 

"Why ain't you workin'? A big, husky man like you?" she asked. 

"I'm calcalatin' to find work at Sonora, but I have to have the strengthto git there. I've had a bad spell of ague. "

The girl raised her eyes to him and compassion softened them. As she wentback to her bread-cutting he heard her murmur, "I guess that's straight. He sure has an awful peaked look. "

It was she who gave him the food, rolled in a piece of newspaper. Standing in the doorway, she held it out to him and said, smiling, "There, it's a good lunch. I hope it'll brace you up so you can getto Sonora all right. I believe you're tellin' the truth and I wishyou luck. "

He grunted his thanks and made off, shambling across the yard and outinto the sun-flooded fields. He had to cross them to get out of rangebehind a hill spur before he turned into the woods. As he walked, feelingtheir eyes boring into his back, conscious of himself as hugelyconspicuous in the untenanted landscape, he opened the paper and ateravenously, tearing at the bread and meat. 

He was far afield before he dared to rest and look at the paper. It waspart of the Sunday edition of the _Stockton Expositor_, and in it he readof the approaching trial of Knapp. Both Danny Leonard and Jim Bailey hadidentified him by his hands and his size as the man who had wounded themessenger, and Knapp had admitted it. The paper predicted a life sentencefor him. Then it went on to Garland, who was still at large. Variouspeople were sure they had seen him. A saloon keeper on the outskirts ofPlacerville was ready to swear that a mounted man, who had stopped at hisplace one night for a drink, was the fugitive outlaw. If this evidencewas reliable Garland was moving toward his old stamping ground, the campsalong the Feather, where it was said he had friends. 

His relief was intense, for it was evident Knapp had had little to say ofhim, and his hunters were on the wrong trail. Food cravings appeased, hisanxieties temporarily at rest, he was easier than he had been since thenight at Sheeps Bar. Curled under a thicket of madrone he slept like alog and woke in the morning, his energies primed, his brain alert, thinking of Pancha. 

There were two things that had to be done--get a letter to her andreplenish his store of cartridges. If too long a time passed without newsof him, she would grow anxious, might talk, might betray suspicious factsor draw inferences herself. A word from him, dispatched from a camp alongthe lode, would quiet her. So he must gird his loins for the perilousventure of a break into the open under the eyes of men. 

Up beyond Angels, slumbering amid its rotting placers and abandonedditches, lies the old camp of Farleys. In times past it was a stop on theway to the Calaveras Big Trees, but after the railroad diverted thetraffic to the Mariposa Group, Farleys was left to pursue its tranquilway undisturbed by stage or tourist. Still it remains, if stagnant, self-respecting, has a hotel, a post office and a street of stores, alongwhich the human flotsam and jetsam of the mineral belt may drift withoutexciting comment. A derelict could pass along its wooden sidewalk, drop aletter in the post box, even buy a box of cartridges without attractingnotice. And even if he should be noticed, Farleys was sleepy and a goodway from anywhere. Warnings sent from there would not be acted upon tooquickly. A man could catch the eye of Farleys, wake its suspicions andget away while it was talking things over and starting the machinery forhis arrest. 

This was the place he decided on and forthwith moved toward. He had fourcartridges and if game was plentiful and his aim good he might makeFarleys and still have one or maybe two left. 

But it took longer than he calculated, swollen rivers blocking his path, luck going against him. Three of his cartridges were expended on a deerbefore he brought it down and the rains came back, blinding andtorrential. Forced to make detours because of the unfordable streams helost his way and spent precious hours groping about in pine forests, darkas twilight, their boughs bent to the onslaught of the storm. Crossing awatercourse he fell and his matches were soaked, and that night, crouchedagainst a tree trunk, a creature less protected than the beasts who hadtheir shelters, he sucked the raw meat. 

The next day his misfortunes reached a climax when he used his lastbullet on a rabbit and missed it. He went on for twelve hours, and in thedarkness under a mass of dripping bracken began to think of Farleys lessas a place of peril than as a refuge, even though known for what he was. But he pushed that thought away as other men push temptation and tried tosleep under his saturated tent. In the morning he was on the trail withthe first light, staggering a little, squinting down the columned aislesfor open ground whence he could look out and get his bearings. 

It was late in the afternoon, dusk at hand, when he saw the light of aclearing. He hastened, staring ahead, stood for a stunned second, thenleaped behind a tree, muscles tight, the dull confusion of his braingone. Looming high through the gray of the twilight, balconied, many-windowed, was a large white building. Outhouses sprawled at oneside, a weed-grown drive curved to its front steps, down the slant of itsroof the rain ran, spouting from broken gutters and lashing the shuttersthat blinded its tiers of windows. 

The first shock over, he stole cat-soft from trunk to trunk, studying it. There were no lights, no smoke from the chimneys, no sign of habitation. A loosened shutter on the ground floor banged furiously, calling outechoes from the solitude. He circled the back of it, round by theoutbuildings, a lot of them, one like a stable--all silent. Then made hisway to the side with its deep, first-floor veranda and was creepingtoward the front when he ran into something--a circular constructioncovered with a rough bark and topped by a balustrade. 

One look at it and he gave a smothered exclamation and ran back amongthe trees. The light was almost gone, but there was enough to show aline of enormous shafts towering into a remote blackness. Like reddishmonoliths they reared themselves in a receding file, silence abouttheir feet, their crests far aloft moaning under the wind. In theencroaching darkness they showed like the pillars of a temple reared bysome primordial race of giants, their foliage a roof that seemed totouch the low sky. He knew where he was now--the Calaveras Big Trees. The house was the old hotel, once a point of pilgrimage, long sincefallen from popularity and left to gradual decay. In summer a fewtravelers found their way there, but at this season the spot was in ascomplete a solitude as it had been when the first gringoes came andstood in silent awe. 

He broke his way in by the window with the loosened shutter and passedthrough the dimness of long rooms, bare and chilly, his steps loud on theuncarpeted floors. The place was damp and had the musty smell of a houselong unaired and unoccupied. The double doors into the dining room werejammed and he had to wrench them open; in the pantry a windowpane wasbroken and the rain had seeped in. Here, on a three-legged table, hefound a calendar and remembered hearing that the hotel had been openedduring the previous summer, but that, business being bad, the proprietorhad closed it after a few weeks. 

In the kitchen he found signs of this period of habitation. On a shelf ina cupboard, hidden by a debris of paper and empty boxes, he came upon twocans evidently overlooked. He took them to the window, threw back theshutter, and saw they contained tomatoes and cherries. This heartened himto new efforts and he began a search through the dirty desolation of theroom. He was rewarded by finding a half-filled match box, a few sticks ofsplit wood and in the bottom of a coal bunker in the passage enough coalto make at least one good fire. 

Before he started it he closed the shutter tight, then, groping in thedusk, filled the big range with paper and wood and set a match to it. Itflickered, caught, snapped cheerily, light flickering along the walls, shining between the bars. He poured on the coal, opened all the draughts, saw the iron grow slowly red and felt the grateful warmth. With his knifehe cut open the tomato can, heated its contents in a leaky saucepan, and, taking it to the sink, spooned it up with a piece of wood. The cherrieswere his dessert. 

After that he peeled off his outer clothes and lay on the floor in frontof the range. It threw out a violent heat, but not too much for him; heluxuriated, basked in it, delighting in the rosy patches that grew on thestove's rusty surface, the bright droppings from its grate. Holding hisstiff feet out to it, he cooked himself, stretching and turning like acat. Finally, he lay quiet, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyestouching points that the red light played upon, and listened to the rain. The building shook to its buffets; it swept like feeling fingers acrossthe windows, drummed on the low roofs of the outhouses, ran in aspattering rush along the balcony. The sound of it soothed him like alullaby, and with the banging of the unfastened shutter loud in his earshe slept the sleep of the just. 

The next morning, with the daylight to help him, he extended hissearch and found a few spoonfuls of tea in a glass preserve jar, ahandful of moldy potatoes in a gunny-sack and in a shed back of thekitchen a pile of cut wood. He breakfasted royally, finishing theremains of the cherries, built the fire up high and hot, and startedto explore the house. 

It was as empty as a shell, room opening out of room, half lighted, bareand dismal. There was nothing to be got out of it and he was back on hisway to the warmth of the kitchen when he thought of the broken-leggedtable in the pantry. Propping this up against the window ledge, a drawerfell from it, scattering sheets of paper and envelopes on the floor. Hestood staring at them, lying round his feet, fallen there as if fromheaven to supply his last and now greatest need. With an upturned box fora seat, the stub of pencil he always carried sharpened to a pin point byhis knife, he steadied the table on the windowsill, and sat down to writeto Pancha. He wrote the word "Farleys" at the top of the sheet, as heknew she would see the Farleys postmark, but the date he omitted:

"MY DEARY PANCHITA:

"_Farleys_

"Here's the old man writing to you from Farleys. Sort of small deadplace, but there's business moving round it, so I got washed up here fora few days. I ain't had anything that's good yet, but there's a fellerthat looks like he might nibble, and take it from me my hooks are out. Anyways if he does I'll let you know. Plenty lot of rain, but I've beencomfortable right along. Got a good room here and swell grub. And don'tyou worry about my roomatiz. All you want to know is I ain't got it. Ican't give you no address, as I'm moving on soon, Wednesday maybe. ButI'll drop you a line from somewheres as soon as I got anything to say. You want to remember I'm all right and as happy as I ever am when I ain'twith my best girl. This leaves me in good health, which I hope it findsyou. 

"YOUR BEST BEAU. "

The rain lasted that day, but on the next the sun rose on a world washedclean, woodland-scented, fresh and beautiful. The time had come for himto dare. At nightfall he started, a young moon to guide him, followed aroad ankle high in ruts and mud, and at dawn crept into an alder thicketfor rest and sleep. It was nine, the day well started, when he walkedinto Farleys. 

The little town was up and about its business, windows open, housewivessweeping front steps. The air was redolent of pine balsam, the sunlicking up the water in hollows on the sidewalks, the distances colored atransparent blue. Outside the saloon the barkeeper was patting his dog, women in sunbonnets with string bags on their arms were on their way tothe general store, men were bringing out chairs and placing them withpondering calculation the right distance from the hitching bar. 

He bought his stamp and posted his letter, the man inside the windowoffering comments on the weather. Then he had to face the length of thestreet; he had been there before and knew the hardware store was at itsother end. As he traversed it the heads of the men--already settled intheir chairs for the day--turned hopefully at the sound of his masculinetread. It might be someone who would stand a drink, and even if itwasn't, staring at a passerby was something to do. To run such a gauntletrequired all his fortitude, and as he walked under the battery of eyesthe sweat gathered on his face and his heart thumped in his throat. 

The clerk at the hardware store was reading a paper. When he went for thecartridges he left it on the counter and the fugitive saw the heading ofa column, "Garland still eludes justice. " As he waited he read it, turning from it to take his package and then back to it as the clerk madechange. They were hunting in the Feather country. A blacksmith beyondAuburn swore he knew the outlaw and had seen him, mounted on a bay horse, ride past his shop a week before at sunset. The clerk held out thechange, and Garland, reading, nodded toward the counter. He was afraid toextend his hand, knowing that it shook, and presently, dropping thepaper, scooped up the money with a curved palm. 

"Looks like Garland was goin' to give 'em the slip after all, " saidthe clerk. 

"Um--looks that way, but I wouldn't bank on it. If he's lyin' low in oneof them camps up the Feather he's liable to be seen. There's folks therethat knows him it says here and you can't always trust your friends. Fineweather we're havin' after the rain. So long. "

When he came out into the street he was nerved for a last, desperateventure. He went to the general store and bought a stock of provisions:bread, sugar, bacon, coffee and tobacco. The salesman was inclined to befriendly and asked him questions, and he explained himself as aprospector in the hills, cut off by the recent rains. He got away fromthere as quickly as he could, dropped down a side path and made for thewoods and "home. "

That evening he went out and lay under the giant trees, and smoked hisfirst pipe for weeks. The sunset gleamed through the foliage in fieryspots, here and there piercing it with a long ray of light which slantedacross the red trunks. From the forest recesses twilight spread instealthy advance, and looking up he could see bits of the sky, scatterings of pink through the darkening green. It was intensely quiet, not a stir of wind, not a bird note, or leaf rustle. The place was heldin that mysterious silence which broods over the Californian country andsuggests a hushed and ominous attention. It is as if nature were aware ofsome impending event, imminent and portentous, and waited in trancedexpectancy. The outlaw felt it, and moved, disquieted, setting hisoppression down to loneliness. 

One afternoon a week later, while standing at the kitchen window, he sawa figure dart across an opening between the trees. It went so swiftlythat he was aware of it only as a dash of darkness, the passage of ashadow, but It left a moving wake in the ferns and grasses. With hisheart high and smothering, he felt for his revolver and crept through therooms to the broken window on the veranda. If he was caught he would diegame, fight from this citadel till his last cartridge was gone. His eyesto a crack in the shutter he looked out--no one was there. The vista ofthe forest stretched back as free of human presence as in the days beforeman had roamed its solemn corridors. 

Then he saw it again; the tightness of his muscles relaxed, and the handholding the revolver dropped to his side. It was a child, a boy; therewere two of them. He watched them move, foot balanced before foot, waryeyes on the house, emerge from behind a trunk and flee to the shelter ofthe next one. They were little fellows, eight or perhaps ten, in overallsand ragged hats, scared and yet adventurous, creeping cautiously nearer. 

It was easy to guess what they were and what had brought them: ranchchildren who had seen the smoke of his fire, and, knowing the hotel to beempty, had come to discover who was there. The game was up--they mighthave been round the place for hours, for days. He suddenly threw open theshutters and roared at them, an unexpected and fearful challenge. Amoment of paralyzed terror was followed by a wild rush, the brackenbreaking under their flying feet. After they had passed from his sight hecould hear the swish and crashing of their frantic flight. Two boys, sofrightened, would not take long to reach home and gasp out their story. 

He left on their heels, window and door flapping behind him, the fire redin the range. 

Two days later he found cover in a deserted tunnel back in the hills. Itstimbers sagged with the weight of the years, the yellow mound of its dumpwas hidden under a mantle of green. Even its mouth, once a black hole inthe hillside verdure, was curtained by a veil of creepers. There was gameand there was water and there he stayed. At first he rested, then idleand inert lay among the ferns on the top of the dump, staring at thedistance, squinting up at the sky, deadened with the weight of theinterminable, empty days. 

CHAPTER XIX

HALF TRUTHS AND INFERENCES

Chrystie had developed a liking for long walks. As she was a person of alazy habit Lorry inquired about it and received the answer that walkingwas the easiest way to keep down your weight. This was a satisfactoryexplanation, for Chrystie was of the ebullient, early-spreadingCalifornian type, and an extending acquaintance among girls of her agemight readily awake a dormant vanity. So the walks passed unchallenged. 

But, beside an unwonted attention to her looks, Lorry noticed that hersister was changing. Quite suddenly she seemed to have emerged fromchildhood, blossomed into a grown-up phase. She was losing her irrelevanthigh spirits, bubbled much less frequently, sometimes sat in silence forhalf an hour at a time. Then there were moments when her glance was fixedand pondering, as if her thoughts ranged afar. The new interest in herappearance extended from her figure to her clothes. She spent so muchmoney on them that Lorry spoke to her about it and was answered withmutinous irritation. Why shouldn't she have pretty things like the othergirls? What was the sense of hoarding up their money like misers? Lorrycould do it if she liked; she was going to get some good out of hers. 

Lorry saw the change as the result of a widening social experience--shehad tried to find amusement, the proper surroundings of her age andstation, for Chrystie and she had succeeded. Gayeties had grown out ofthat first, agitating dinner till they now moved through quite a littleround of parties. Under this new excitement Chrystie was acquiring poise, also fluctuations of spirit and temper. Lorry supposed it wasnatural--you couldn't stay up late when you weren't used to it and be aseasy-going and good-humored as when you went to bed every night at ten. 

Lorry might have seen deeper, but her attention was diverted. For thefirst time in her life she was thinking a good deal about her ownaffairs. What she felt was kept very secret, but even if it hadn't beenthere was no one to notice, certainly not Chrystie, nor Aunt Ellen. Theonly other person near enough to notice was Fong, and it wasn't Fong'splace to help--at least to help in an open way. 

One morning in the kitchen, when he and "Miss Lolly" were making the menufor a new dinner, he had said, "Mist Bullage come this time?"

"Miss Lolly, " with a faint access of color and an eye sliding from Fong'sto the back porch, had answered, "No, I'm not asking Mr. Burrage to this one, Fong. "

"Why not ask Mist Bullage?" Fong had persisted, slightly reproving. 

"Because I've asked him several times and he hasn't come. "

That was in the old Bonanza manner. One answered a Chinaman like Fongtruthfully and frankly as man to man. 

"He come this time. You lite him nice letter. "

"No, I don't want to, I've enough without him. It's all made up. "

"I no see why--plenty big loom, plenty good dinner. Velly nice boy, goodboy, best boy ever come to my boss's house. "

"Now, Fong, don't get side-tracked. I didn't come to talk to you aboutthe people, I came to talk about the food. "

Fong looked at her, gently inquiring, "You no like Mist Bullage, Miss Lolly?"

"Of course I like him. Won't you please attend to what I'm saying?"

"Then you ask him and I make awful swell dinner--same like I make foryour Pa when General Grant eat here. "

When Fong had a fixed idea that way there was no use arguing with him;one rose with a resigned air and left the kitchen. As Lorry passedthrough the pantry door he called after her, amiable but determined, "All samey Mist Bullage no come I won't make bird nest ice cleam withpink eggs. "

No one but Fong bothered about Mr. Burrage's absence. After the eveningat the Albion Chrystie set him down as "hopeless, " and when he refusedtwo dinner invitations, said they ought to have asked him to wait on thetable and then he would have accepted. To this gibe Lorry made no answer, but that night before the mirror in her own room, she addressed herreflection with bitterness:

"Why should any man like me? I'm not pretty, I'm not clever, I'm as slowas a snail. " She saw tears rise in her eyes and finished ruthlessly, "I'msuch a fool that I cry about a man who's done everything but say straightout, 'I don't care for you, you bore me, do leave me alone. '"

So Lorry, nursing her hidden wound, was forgetful of her stewardship. 

It was a pity, for there were times when Chrystie, caught in a contritemood and questioned, would have told. Such times generally came when shewas preparing for one of her walks. At these moments her adventure had away of suddenly losing its glamour and appearing as a shabby andunderhand performance. Before she saw Mayer she often hesitated, a preyto a chill distaste, sometimes even questioning her love for him. Aftershe saw him things were different. She came away filled with a bridlingvanity, feeling herself a siren, a queen of men. Helen of Troy, seeingbrave blood spilled for her possession, was not more satisfied of herworth than Chrystie after an hour's talk with Boyé Mayer. 

It was the certainty of Lorry's disapproval that made secrecy necessary. He soon realized that Lorry was the governing force, the loved and feareddictator. But he was a cunning wooer. He put no ban upon confession--ifChrystie wanted to tell he was the last person to stop it. And havingplaced the responsibility in her hands, he wove closer round the littlefly the parti-colored web of illusion. He made her feel the thrill of theclandestine, the romance of stolen meetings, see herself not as a green, affrighted girl, but a woman queening it over her own destiny, fit matefor him in eagle flight above the hum-drum multitude. 

But the moments when her conscience pricked still recurred. She wasparticularly oppressed one afternoon as she sat in her room waiting forthe clock to strike three. At half past she was to meet Mayer in theplaza, opposite the Greek Church. She had no time for a long walk thatday--an engagement for tea claimed her at five--so he had suggested theplaza. No one they knew ever went there, and a visit to the Greek Churchwould be interesting. 

Her hat and furs lay ready on the bed and she sat in the long wickerchair by the window, one hand supporting her chin, while her eyes restedsomberly on the fig tree in the garden. She was reluctant to go; she didnot know why, except that just then, waiting for the clock to strike, shehad had an eerie sort of fear of Mayer. She told herself it was becausehe was so clever, so superior to any man she had ever known. But shewished she could tell Lorry, say boldly, "Lorry, Mr. Mayer is in lovewith me"--she wished she could dare. 

At that moment Lorry appeared in the doorway between the two rooms. 

"Hello, " she said. "How serious you look. "

"I'm thinking, " said Chrystie, studying the fig tree. 

"Are you going out?" The things on the bed had caught her eye. 

"Um--presently. "

"So soon? You're not asked to the Forsythe's till five and it's notthree yet. "

"I _could_ be going somewhere else first. "

"Oh--where?"

"Somewhere out of this house--that's the main thing. Since the furnacewas put in it's like a Turkish bath. "

"You're going for a walk?" Lorry went to the bed and picked up thehat. It was a new one with a French maker's name in the crown. "Yououghtn't to hack this hat about, Chrystie. I wouldn't wear it when Iwent for a walk. "

"Do you think it would be better to wear it in the house? Having boughtit I must wear it somewhere. "

Lorry, laughing, put on the hat and looked at herself in the glass. Therewas a moment's pause, then the chair creaked under a movement ofChrystie's, and her voice came very quiet. 

"Lorry, do you like Boyé Mayer?"

Lorry, studying the effect of the hat, did not answer with any specialinterest. The Perfect Nugget had lost all novelty for her. He came to thehouse now and then, was a help in their entertainments, and was alwaysconsiderate and polite--that was all. 

"No, not much, " she murmured. 

"Why not?"

"It's hard to say exactly--just something. " She placed her hand over arakish green paradise plume to see if its elimination would be animprovement. 

"But if you don't like a person you ought to have a reason. "

"You don't always. It's just a feeling, an instinct like dogs have. I'vean instinct against Mr. Mayer--he's not the real thing. "

Chrystie sat forward in the chair. 

"That's exactly what I'd say he was, and everybody else says so, too. "

"On the outside--yes, I didn't mean that. I meant deep down. I don'tthink he's real straight through--it's all varnish and glitter. Of courseI don't mind his coming here the way he does; we don't see him often andhe's amusing and pleasant. But I wouldn't like him to be on a friendlyfooting. In fact he never could be--I wouldn't let him. "

It was the voice of authority. Chrystie felt its finality, and guided byher own inner distress and the hopelessness of revolt, said sharply:

"And yet you wouldn't mind Mark Burrage being on a friendly footing. "

"Mark Burrage!" There was something ludicrous in Lorry's face, fullof surprise under the overpowering hat. "What has Mark Burrage todo with it?"

Chrystie climbed somewhat lumberingly out of the chair. Her movementswere dignified, her tone sarcastic. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing. Only if Mr. Mayer is so far below your standardI'm wondering where Mr. Burrage comes in. " She stretched a long arm andsnatched the hat. "Excuse me, " she said with brusque politeness, settingit on her own head and turning to the glass, "but I really must be going. Only a salamander could live comfortably in this house. "

Lorry was startled. Her sister's face, deeply flushed, showed an intenseirritation. 

"I don't understand you. You can't make a comparison between those twomen. They're as different as black and white. "

"They certainly are, " said Chrystie, driving a long pin through the hat. "Or chalk and cheese, or brass and gold, or whatever else stands for thereal thing and the imitation. "

"What's the matter with you, Chrystie? Are you angry?"

"Me?" She gave a glance from under her lifted arm. "Why should Ibe angry?"

"I don't know but--" An alarming thought seized Lorry, and shemoved nearer. It was preposterous, but after all girls took strangefancies, and Chrystie was no longer a child. "You don't _care_ forBoyé Mayer, do you?"

It was the propitious moment, but Chrystie was now as far from telling asif she had taken an oath of silence. What Lorry had already said wasenough, and the tone in which she asked the question was the finishingtouch. If she thought her sister had fallen in love with Fong, shecouldn't have appeared more shocked and incredulous. 

"Care for him?" said Chrystie, pulling out the bureau drawer and clawingabout in it for her gloves. "Well, I care for him in some ways, and thenI don't care for him in other ways. "

"I don't mean that, I mean _really_ care. "

"Do you mean, am I _in love_ with him?"

Her eye on Lorry was steady and questioning, also slightly scornful. Lorry was abashed by it; she felt that she ought not to have asked, andin confusion stammered, "Yes. "

Chrystie moved to the bed and threw on her furs. Her ill-humor was gone, though she was still a little scornful and rather grandly forbearing. Hermanner suggested that she could condone this in Lorry owing to herrelationship and the honesty of her intention. 

"Dearest Lorry, you talk like an old maid in a musical comedy. In lovewith him? How I wish I could be! At my age every self-respecting girlought to be in love--they always are in books. But try as I will, Ican't seem to manage it. I guess I've got a heart of stone or perhapsit's been left out of me entirely. Good-by, the heartless wonder's goingfor her walk. "

She ended on a laugh, a little strident, and crossed the room, perfumeshaken from her brilliant clothes. Outside the door she broke into a songthat rose above her scudding flight down the stairs. 

Lorry's momentary uneasiness died. Chrystie, as a woman of ruses anddeceptions, was a thing she could not at this stage accept. 

They met in the plaza and saw the Greek Church and then sat on a benchunder a tree and talked. They were so secure in the little park'sisolation that they gave their surroundings no attention. That was why awoman crossing it was able to draw near, stand for a watching moment, skirt the back of their bench, and pass on unnoticed. She was the samewoman who had seen them at that earlier meeting in Union Square. 

During that month the new operetta at the Albion had been put on and hadfallen flat. There was a good deal of speculation as to the cause of thefailure, and it was rumored that the management set it down to MissLopez. She had slighted her work of late, been careless and indifferent. Nobody knew what was the matter with her. She scorned the idea of illhealth, but she looked worn out and several times had given vent tosavage and unreasonable bursts of temper. She was too valuable a woman toquarrel with, and when the head of the enterprise suggested a rest--aweek or two in the country--she rejected the idea with an angryrepudiation of illness or fatigue. 

Crowder was there on the first night and went away disturbed. He hadnever seen her give so poor a performance; all her fire was gone, she wasmechanical, almost listless. Her public was loyal though puzzled, and thepapers stood by her, but "What's happened to Pancha Lopez? How she _has_gone off!" was a current phrase where men and women gathered. Behind thescenes her mates whispered, some jealously observant, others more kindly, concerned and wondering. Gossip of a love affair was bandied about, butdied for lack of confirmation. She had been seen with no one, themethodical routine of her days remained unchanged. 

For her the month had been the most wretched of her life. Never in thehard past had she passed through anything as devastating. Those trialsshe had known how to meet; this was all new, finding her without defense, naked to unexpected attack. Belief and dread had alternated in her, ravaged and laid her waste. After the manner of impassioned women shewould not see, clung to hope, had days, after a letter or a message fromMayer, when she had almost ascended to the top of the golden momentagain. Then there was silence, a note of hers unanswered, and she fell, sinking into darkling depths. Once or twice, waking in the night orwaiting for his knock, she had sudden flashes of clear sight. These lefther in a frozen stillness, staring with wide eyes, frightened of herself. 

The process of enlightenment had been gradual. Mayer wanted no scenes, noannoying explanations; there was to be no violent moment of severance. Toaccomplish his withdrawal gracefully, he put himself to some trouble. After that first letter he waylaid her at the stage door one night, andwalked part of the way home with her. He had been kind, friendly, brotherly--a completely changed Mayer. She felt it and refused tounderstand, walking at his side, trying to be the old, merry Pancha. 

It was at this time that she received her father's letter from Farleys. Weeks had passed since she had heard from him, and when she saw hiswriting on the envelope she realized that she had almost forgotten him. The thought left her cold, but when she read the homely phrases she wasmoved. In a moment of extended vision she saw the parents' tragedy--thelove that lives for the child's happiness and is powerless to createit. He would have died for her and she would have thrust him aside, pushed him pleading from her path, to follow a man a few months beforea stranger. 

After that she endured a week without a word from Mayer, and then, unable to sleep or work, telephoned to his hotel. In answer to herquestion the switchboard girl said Mr. Mayer had not been out of town atall for the last two weeks. She asked to speak with him and heard hisvoice, sharp and cold. He couldn't talk freely over the wire; he wouldrather she didn't call him up; his out-of-town business had beenpostponed, that was all. 

"Why are you mad with me?" she breathed, trying to make her voice steady. 

"I am not, " came the answer. "Please don't be fanciful. And _don't_ callme up here, I don't like it. I'll be around as soon as I can, but I've alot to do, as I've already told you several times. Good-by. "

She had sent the call from a telephone booth, and carefully, with a slowprecision, she hung up the receiver. A feeling of despair, a stiflinganguish, seized her and she began to cry. Shut into the hot, small place, she broke into rending sobs, her head bent, her hands gripped, rockingback and forth. Small, choked sounds, whines and cries came from her, andfearful of being heard, she pressed her hands against her mouth, lookingup, looking down, an animal distracted in its unfamiliar pain. 

The following day he wrote to her, excused himself, said he had beenworried on business matters and sent her flowers. She buoyed herself upand once more tried to believe, but her will had been weakened. Fromlower layers of consciousness the truth was forcing its way torecognition, yet she still ignored it. Realization of her state if sheadmitted it made her afraid and her fight had the fierceness of astruggle for life. It was only in the night--awake in the dumb dark--thatshe could not escape it. Then, staring at the pale square of the window, she heard her voice whispering:

"What will I do? What will become of me?"

In all her miserable imaginings and self-queries the thought that she hadbeen supplanted had no place. Mayer had often spoken to her of his socialdiversions and no woman had ever figured in them. The paragraphs whichstill appeared about him touched on no feminine influences. It was herfault; she had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Had she notalways wondered that he should have cared for her? On close acquaintancehe had found her to be what she was--common, uneducated, impossible. Atfirst she had tried to hide it and then it had come out and he had beenrepelled. It was not till the afternoon, aimlessly walking to ease herpain, when she saw him again with the blonde-haired girl, that thethought of another woman entered her mind. 

That night Crowder, after watching the last act from the back of thehouse, resolved to see her and find out what was wrong. He had beentalking to the manager in the foyer and the man's sulky discontentalarmed him. If Pancha didn't buck up she'd lose her job. 

She was at the dressing table in her red kimono when he came in. Thegrease was nearly all off and with her front hair drawn back fromher forehead, her face had a curiously bare, haggard look. As heentered she glanced up, not smiling, and saw the knowledge of herfailure in his eyes. 

For a moment she looked at him, grave and sad, confessing it. Theexpression caught at his heart, and he had nothing to say, turning awayfrom her to look for a chair. 

She picked up the rag and went on wiping her face. 

"Well, " she said in a brisk voice, "I wasn't on the job tonight, was I?"

Reassured by her tone, he sat down and faced her. 

"No, you weren't. It wasn't a good performance, Panchita. I've alwaystold you the truth and I've got to go on doing it. "

"Go ahead, you're not telling me anything I don't know. I've got myfinger on the pulse of this house. I know every rise and fall of itstemperature. But I can't always be up in G, can I?"

"No, but you can't stay down at zero too long. "

"It was as bad as that, was it?"

"Yes, it was bad. "

She dropped her hand to the edge of the dressing table and looked at it. Her face, with the hair strained back, the rouge gone, looked witheredand yellow. Crowder eyed it anxiously. 

"Say, Panchita, you're sick. "

"Sick? Forget it! I never was better in my life. "

"Then why are you off your work--why do you act as if you didn't care?"

"Can't I have a part I hate? Can't I get weary of this old joint with itssmoke and its beer? God!" She began to pull the pins out of her hair andfling them on the dresser. "I'm human--I've got my ups and downs--and youkeep forgetting it. "

"That's just what I'm not forgetting. "

"Stop talking about me--I'm sick of it, " she cried, and snatching up thecomb began tearing it through her hair. 

"It's nerves, " said Crowder. "Everything shows it. The way you're combingyour hair does. "

"If you don't let me alone I'll put you out--all of you nagging andpicking at me; a saint couldn't stand it!" Crowder rose, but she whirledround on him, the comb held out in an arresting hand. "No, don't go yet. I'll give you another chance. I want to ask you something. I saw a womanthe other day and I want to know who she is--at least I don't really wantto know, but she'll do as well as anything else to change the subject. Tall with yellow sort of dolly hair and a dolly face. Dark purple dresswith black velvet edges, lynx furs and a curly brimmed hat with a greenparadise plume falling over one side. "

Crowder's face wrinkled with a grin. 

"Well, that's funny! You might have asked me forty others and I'd nothave known. But thanks to your vivid description I _can_ tell you--Isaw her yesterday afternoon in those very togs. It's the youngestAlston girl. "

"Who's she?"

"One of the two daughters of George Alston. They're orphans, live in abig house on Pine Street. The one you saw was Chrystie. What do you wantto know about her?"

Pancha, gathering her hair in one hand, began to whisk it round into aknot. Her head was down bent. 

"I don't know--just curiosity. She's sort of stunning looking. Did youever meet her?"

Crowder smiled. 

"I know them well--have for over a year. Awfully nice girls--thebest kind. "

Pancha lifted her head, her face sharp with interest. 

"What's she like?"

He considered, the smile softened to an amused indulgence. 

"Oh, just a great big baby, good-natured and jolly. Everybody likesher--you couldn't help it if you tried. She's so simple and sweet, accepts the whole world as if it was her friend. Her money hasn't spoiledher a bit. "

"Money--she has money?"

"To burn, my dear. She's rich. "

Pancha took up a hand glass and turning her back to him studied herprofile in the mirror. It did not occur to Crowder that he never beforehad seen her do such a thing. 

"Rich, is she?" she murmured. "How rich?"

"Something like four hundred thousand dollars; her father was one of theVirginia City crowd. Chrystie's just come into her part of the roll. Eighteen years old and an heiress--that's a good beginning. "

"Um--must be a queer feeling. I guess the men are around the honey thickas flies. "

Crowder screwed up his eyes considering. 

"No, they're not--not yet anyhow. Until this winter the girls lived soretired--didn't know many people, kept to themselves. Now they've brokenout and I suppose it's only a matter of time before the flies gather, andif you asked me I'd say they'd gather thickest round Chrystie. She hasn'tas much character or brains as Lorry, but she's prettier and jollier, andafter all that's what most men like. "

"It certainly is, especially with four hundred thousand thrown in forgood measure. "

The hand holding the glass dropped to her lap. She sat still for amoment, then without turning told him to go; she was tired and wanted toget home. It did not even strike him as odd that she never looked at him, just flapped a hand over her shoulder and dismissed him with a short"Good-night. "

When he had gone she sat as he had left her, the mirror still in her lap. The gas jet flamed in its wire cage, and so silent was the room that amouse crept out from behind the baseboard, spied about, then made ascurrying dart across the floor. Her eye caught it, slid after it, andshe moved, putting the glass carefully on the dresser. The palms of herhands were wet with perspiration and she rubbed them on the skirt of herkimono and rose stiffly, resting for a moment against the back of herchair. She had a sick feeling, a sensation as if her heart weredissolving, as if the room looked unfamiliar and much larger than usual. When she put on her clothes she did it slowly, her fingers fumblingstupidly at buttons and hooks, her mouth a little open as if breathingwas difficult. 

CHAPTER XX

MARK PAYS A CALL

Mark Burrage saw the winter pass and only went once to the Alstons andthen they were not at home. He had refused three invitations to the houseand after the ignominous event at the Albion received no more. When heallowed himself to think of that humiliating evening he did not wonder. 

But, outside of his work, he allowed himself very little thinking. Allwinter he had concentrated on his job with ferocious energy. The oldermen in the office had a noticing eye on him. "That fellow Burrage has gotthe right stuff in him, he'll make good, " they said among themselves. Theyounger ones, sons of rich fathers who had squeezed them into places inthe big firm, regarded his efforts with indulgent surprise. They likedhim, called him "Old Mark, " and were a little patronizing in theirfriendliness: "He was just the sort who'd be a grind. Those ranch chapswho had to get up at four in the morning and feed the 'horgs' were thedevil to work when they came down to the city. Even law was a cinch afterthe 'horgs. '"

Sometimes at night--his endeavor relaxed for a pondering moment--hestudied the future. The outlook might have daunted a less resolutespirit. A great gap yawned between the present and the time when he couldgo to Lorry Alston and say, "Let me take care of you; I can do it now. "But he figured it out, bridged the gap, knew what one man had doneanother man could do. He reckoned on leaving the office next year andsetting up for himself, and grim-visaged, mouth set to a straight line, he calculated on the chances of the fight. Its difficulties braced him tonew zeal and in the strain and stress of the struggle his youthfulawkwardness wore away, giving place to a youthful sternness. 

No one guessed his hopes and high aspiration, not even his friendCrowder. When Crowder rallied him about this treatment of the Alstons hehad been short and offhand--didn't care for society, hadn't time to wastegoing round being polite. He left upon Crowder the impression that theAlston girls did not interest him any more than any other girls. "OldMark isn't a lady's man, " was the way Crowder excused him to Chrystie. Ofcourse Chrystie laughed and said she had no illusions about that, butwhatever kind of a man he was he ought to take some notice of them, nomatter how dull and deadly they were. Crowder, realizing his ownresponsibility--it was he who had taken Mark to the Alston house--waskind but firm. 

"It's up to you to go and see those girls. It's not the decent thing todrop out without a reason. They've gone out of their way to be civil toyou, and you know, old chap, they're _ladies_"

Mark grunted, and frowning as at a disagreeable duty said he'd go. 

It took him some weeks to get there. Twice he started, circled the house, and tramped off over the hills. The third time he got as far as the frontgate, weakened and turned away. After long abstinence the thought ofmeeting Lorry's eyes, touching her hand, created a condition of turmoilthat made him a coward; that, while he longed to enter, drew him backlike a sinner from the scene of his temptation. Then an evening camewhen, his jaw set, his heart thumping like a steam piston, he put on hisbest blue serge suit, his new gray overcoat, even a pair of mocha gloves, and went forth with a face as hard as a stone. 

Fong opened the door, saw who it was and broke into a joyful grin. 

"Mist Bullage! Come in, Mist Bullage. No see you for heap long time, Mist Bullage. "

"I've been busy, " said the visitor. "Hadn't much time to come around. "

Fong helped him off with the gray overcoat. 

"You work awful hard, Mist Bullage. Too hard, not good. You come here andhave good time. Lots of fun here now. You come. "

He moved to hang the coat on the hatrack, and, as he adjusted it, turnedand shot a sharp look over his shoulder at the young man. 

"All men who come now not like you, Mist Bullage. "

There was something of mystery, an odd suggestion of withheld meaning, inthe old servant's manner that made Mark smile. 

"How are they different--better or worse?"

Fong passed him, going to the drawing-room door. His hand on the knob, heturned, his voice low, his slit eyes craftily knowing. 

"Ally samey not so good. I take care Miss Lolly and Miss Clist--_I_ lookout. _You_ all 'ight, _you_ come. " He threw open the door with a flourishand called in loud, glad tones, "Miss Lolly, Miss Clist, one velly goodfliend come--Mist Bullage. "

At the end of the long room Mark was aware of a small group whence issueda murmur of talk. At his name the sound ceased, there was a rising ofgraceful feminine forms which floated toward him, leaving a masculinefigure in silhouette against the lighted background of the dining room. He was confused as he made his greetings, touched and dropped Lorry'shand, tried to find an answer for Chrystie's challenging welcome. Then heswitched off to Aunt Ellen in her rocker, groping at knitting that wassliding off her lap, and finally was introduced to the man who stoodwaiting, his hands on the back of his chair. 

At the first glance, while Lorry's voice murmured their names, Markdisliked him. He would have done so even if he had not been a guest atthe Alstons, complacently at home there, even if he had not been inevening dress, correct in every detail, even if the hands resting on thechair back had not shown manicured nails that made his own look coarseand stubby. The face and each feature, the high-bridged, haughty nose, the eyes cold and indolent under their long lids, the thin, close line ofthe mouth--separately and in combination--struck him as objectionableand repellent. He bowed stiffly, not extending his hand, substituting forthe Westerner's "Pleased to meet you, " a gruff "How d'ye do, Mr. Mayer. "

Before the introduction, Mayer, watching Mark greeting the girls, knew hehad seen him before but could not remember where. The young man in hisneat, well fitting clothes, his country tan given place to the pallor ofstudy and late hours, was a very different person from the boy in shirtsleeves and overalls of the ranch yard. But his voice increased Mayer'svague sense of former encounter and with it came a faint feeling ofdisquiet. Memory connected this fellow with something unpleasant. As Markturned to him it grew into uneasiness. Where before had he met thoseeyes, dark blue, looking with an inquiring directness straight into his?

They sank into chairs, everyone except Aunt Ellen, seized by an innerdiscomfort which showed itself in a chilled constraint. Mayer, combingover his recollections, the teasing disquiet increasing with everymoment, was too disturbed for speech. The sight of Lorry had paralyzedwhat little capacity for small talk Mark had. She looked changed, moreunapproachable than ever in a new exquisiteness. It was only a morefashionable way of doing her hair and a becoming dress, but the young mansaw it as a growing splendor, removing her to still remoter distances. She herself was so nervous that she kept looking helplessly at Chrystie, hoping that that irrepressible being would burst into her old-timesprightliness. But Chrystie had her own reasons for being oppressed. Thepresence of Mayer, paying no more attention to her than he did to AuntEllen, and the memory of him making love to her on park benches, gave hera feeling of dishonesty that weighed like lead. 

It looked as if it was going to be a repetition of one of those eveningsin the past before they had "known how to do things, " when Fong caused adiversion by appearing from the dining room bearing a tray. 

To regale evening visitors with refreshments had been the fashion inFong's youth, so in his old age the habit still persisted. He enteredwith his friendly grin and set the tray on a table beside Lorry. On itstood decanters of red and white wine, glasses, a pyramid of fruit and acake covered with varicolored frosting. 

Nobody wanted anything to eat, but they turned to the tray with theeagerness of shipwrecked mariners to an oyster bed. Even Aunt Ellenbecame animated, and looking at Mark over her glasses said:

"Have you been away, Mr. Burrage?"

No, Mr. Burrage had been in town, very busy, and, the hungriest of allthe mariners, he turned to the tray and helped Lorry pour out the wine. The ladies would take none, so the filled glass was held out to Mayer. 

"Claret!" he said, leaning forward to offer the glass. 

As he did so he was aware of a slight, curious expression in the facehe had disliked. The eyelids twitched, the upper lip drew down tightover the teeth, the nostrils widened. It was a sudden contraction andthen flexing of the muscles, an involuntary grimace, gone almost assoon as it had come. With murmured thanks, Mayer stretched his hand andtook the wine. 

It had all come back with the offered glass. A glance shot round thelittle group showed him that no one had noticed; they were cutting andhanding about the cake. He refused a piece and found his stiffened lipscould smile, but he was afraid of his voice, and sipped slowly, forcingthe wine down the contracted passage of his throat. Then he stole a lookat Mark, clumsily steering a way between the chairs to Aunt Ellen whowanted some grapes. The fellow hadn't guessed--hadn't the faintestsuspicion--it was incredible that he should have. It was all rightbut--he raised his hand to his cravat, felt of it, then slipped a fingerinside his collar and drew it away from his neck. 

Through a blurred whirl of thought he could hear Aunt Ellen's voice. 

"I've wanted to see you for a long time, Mr. Burrage. You come from thatpart of the country and I thought you'd know. "

Then Mark's voice:

"Know what, Mrs. Tisdale?"

"About that Knapp man's story. Didn't you tell us your ranch was up nearthe tules where those bandits buried the gold?"

Lorry explained. 

"Aunt Ellen's been so excited about that story, she couldn't talk ofanything else. "

"And why not?" said Aunt Ellen. "It's a very unusual performance. Twosets of thieves, one stealing the money and burying it and another comingalong and finding it. "

Chrystie, diverted from her private worries by this exciting subject, bounced round toward Mark with something of her old explosiveness. 

"Why, you were up there at the time--the first time I mean. Don't youremember you told us that evening when you were here. And you said peoplethought the bandits had a cache in the chaparral. Why didn't any of youthink of the tules?"

"Stupid, I guess, " said Mark. "Not a soul thought of them. And it was anA1 hiding-place. Besides the duck shooters, nobody ever goes there. "

"But somebody _did_ go there, " came from Aunt Ellen with a knowing nod. 

They laughed at that, even Mr. Mayer, who appeared only languidlyinterested, his eyes on the film of wine in the bottom of his glass. 

"Who do you suppose it could have been?" asked Chrystie. 

"A duck shooter, probably. " This was Mr. Mayer's first contribution tothe subject. 

Mark was exceedingly pleased to be able to correct this silent andsupercilious person. 

"No, it couldn't have been. The duck season doesn't open till Septemberfifteen, and Knapp said when they went back in six days the cache wasempty. " He turned to Chrystie. "I've often wondered if it could have beena man I saw that afternoon. "

As on that earlier visit his knowledge of the holdup had made him anattractive center, so once again he saw the girls turn expectant eyes onhim, Aunt Ellen forget her grapes, and even the strange man's glanceshift from the wineglass and rest, attentive, on his face. 

"It was a tramp. He stopped late that afternoon at my father's ranchwhich gives on the road and asked for a drink of water. I gave it tohim and watched him go off in the direction of the trail that leads tothe tules. Of course it would have been an unusual thing for him tohave tried to get across them, but he might have done it and stumbledon the cache. "

"Could he have--isn't it all water?" Lorry asked. 

"There's a good deal of solid land and here and there planks laid acrossthe deeper streams. There _is_ a sort of trail if you happen to know itand a tramp might. It's part of his business to be familiar with theshort cuts and easiest ways round. "

"What was he like?" said Chrystie. 

"A miserable looking fellow--most of them are--all brown and dusty with astraggly beard. There was one thing about him that I noticed, his voice. It was like an educated man's--a sort of echo of better days. "

Aunt Ellen found this very absorbing and she and Chrystie had questionsto ask. Fong's entrance for the tray prevented Lorry from joining in. Asthe Chinaman leaned down to take it, she whispered to him to open awindow, the room was hot. Her eye, touching Mr. Mayer, had noticed thathe had drawn out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead which shone witha thin beading of perspiration. No one heard the order, and Fong, afteropening the window, carried the tray into the dining room and left it onthe table. When Lorry turned to the others, Mark had proved to Aunt Ellenthat the gentleman tramp was a recognized variety of the species, andChrystie had taken up the thread. 

"Did your people up there know anything about him? Did they think hewas the man?"

"None of them saw him. After Knapp's story came out I wrote up and askedthem but no one round there remembered him. "

"Would you know him again if you saw him?"

"If I saw him in the same clothes I would, but"--he smiled intoChrystie's eager face--"I'm not likely to do that. If it's he, he's gottwelve thousand dollars and I guess he's spent some of it on a shave anda new suit. "

Here Mr. Mayer, moving softly, turned to where the tray had stood. It wasgone, and, gracefully apologetic, he rose--he wanted to put down hisglass and get a drink of water. His exit from the group put a temporarystop to the conversation, chairs were in the way, and Aunt Ellen let hergrapes fall on the floor. Mark, scrabbling for them, saw Lorry rise andpress an electric bell on the wall; she had remembered there was no wateron the tray. Mayer, moving to the dining room, did not see her, andcalled back over his shoulder:

"Your American rooms are a little too warm for a person used to the coldstorage atmosphere of houses abroad. "

He said it well, better than he thought he could, for he was stifled by asudden loud pounding of his heart. To hide his face and steady himselfwith a draught of wine was what he wanted. A moment alone, a moment toget a grip on his nerves, would be enough. With his back toward them heleaned against the table and lifted a decanter in his shaking hand. As hedid so, Fong entered through a door just opposite. 

"Water for Mr. Mayer, Fong, " came Lorry's voice from the room beyond. 

The voice and Fong's appearance, coming simultaneously, abrupt andunexpected, made Mayer give a violent start. His hand jerked upward, sending the wine in a scattering spray over the cloth. Fong made nomove for the water, but stood looking from the crimson stain to theman's face. 

"You sick, Mist Mayer?" he said. 

The strained tension snapped. With an eye if steel-cold fury on theservant the man broke into a low, almost whispered, cursing. The wordsran out of his mouth, fluent, rapid, in an unpremeditated rush. They wereas picturesque and malignantly savage as those with which he had cursedthe tules; and suddenly they stopped, checked by the Chinaman'sexpression. It was neither angry or alarmed, but intently observant, theeyes unblinking--an imperturbable, sphinx-like face against which theflood of rage broke, leaving no mark. 

Mayer took up the half-filled glass and drained it, the servant watchinghim with the same quiet scrutiny. He longed to plant his fist in themiddle of that unrevealing mask, but instead tried to laugh, muttered anexplanation about feeling ill, and slid a five-dollar gold piece acrossthe table. 

To his intense relief Fong picked it up, dropped it into the pocket ofhis blouse, and without a word turned and left the room. 

No one had noticed the little scene. When Mayer came back the group wason its feet, Mark having made a move to go. 

There were handshakes and good-nights, and Burrage and Lorry movedforward up the long room. Aunt Ellen took the opportunity of slippingthrough a side door that led to the hall, and Chrystie and her loverfaced each other among the empty chairs. 

With his eye on the receding backs of the other couple, Mayer said, hardly moving his lips:

"When can I see you again? Tomorrow at the Greek Church at four?"

She demurred as she constantly did. At each station in the clandestinecourtship he had the same struggle with the same faltering uncertainty. But, after tonight, the time for humoring her moods was past. What he hadendured during the last hour showed in a haggard intensity of expression, a subdued, fierce urgence of manner. Chrystie looked at him and lookedaway, almost afraid of him. He was staring at her with an avid waiting asif ready to drag the answer out of her lips. She fluttered like a birdunder the snake's hypnotic eye. 

"I can't, " she whispered; "I'm going out with Lorry. "

"Then when?'

"Oh, Boyé, I don't know--I have so many things to do. "

He had difficulty in pinning her down to a date, but finally succeededfive days off. In his low-toned insistence he used a lover's language, terms of endearment, tender phrases, but her timorous reluctance roused apassion of rage in him. He would have liked to shake her; he would haveliked to swear at her as he had at Fong. 

CHAPTER XXI

A WOMAN SCORNED

After the conversation with Crowder, Pancha was very quiet for severaldays. She spoke only the necessary word, came and went with felinesoftness, performed her duties with the precision of a mechanism. Herstillness had a curious quality of detachment; she seemed held in aspell, her eye, suddenly encountered, blank and vacant; even her voicewas toneless. She reacted to nothing that went on around her. 

All her vitality had withdrawn to feed the inner flame. Under that deadexterior fires blazed so high and hot that the shell containing them wasempty of all else. They had burned away pride and reason and conscience;they were burning to explosive outbreak. The girl had no consciousness ofit; she only felt their torment and with the last remnant of her willtried to hide her anguish. Then came a day when the shell cracked and thefires burst through. 

Unable to bear her own thoughts, weakened by two sleepless nights, shetelephoned to the Argonaut Hotel and said she wanted to speak to Mr. Mayer. The switchboard girl answered that he was in and asked for hername. On Pancha's refusal to give it, the girl had crisply replied thatMr. Mayer had left orders no one was to speak with him unless he knewthe name. Pancha gave it and waited. Presently the answer came--"Verysorry, Mr. Mayer doesn't seem to be there--thought he was in, but Iguess I was wrong. "

This falsehood, contemptuously transparent, act of final dismissal, wasthe blow that broke the shell and let the fire loose. Such shreds ofpride and self-respect as remained to the wretched girl were shriveled. She put on her hat and coat, and tying a thick veil over her face, wentacross town to the Argonaut Hotel. 

It was the day after Mayer had met Mark at the Alstons'. He too had notslept, had had a horrible, harassing night. All day he had sat in hisrooms going over the scene, recalling the young man's face, assuringhimself of its unconsciousness. But he was upset, jarred, his securitygone. Luxury had corroded his already wasted and overdrawn forces; thehabits of idleness weakened his power to resist. One fact stood out inhis mind--he must carry the courtship with Chrystie to its conclusion, and arrange for their elopement. Sprawled in the armchair or pacing offthe space from the bedroom door to the window he planned it. One or twomore interviews with her would bring her to the point of consent, thenthey would slip away to Nevada; he would marry her there and they wouldgo on to New York. It ought not to take more than a week, at the longestten days. If he had had any other woman to deal with--not this spiritlessfool of a girl--he could manage it in a much shorter time. All he had todo was to make a last trip to Sacramento and get what was left of themoney and that could be done in a day. 

A knock at the door made him start. Any sound would have made him startin the state he was in, and a knock called up nightmare visions ofBurrage, police officers, Lorry Alston--there was no end to his alarms. Then he reassured himself--a package or the room boy with towels--andcalled out "Come in. "

At the first glance he did not know who it was. Like a woman in a novela female, closely veiled, entered without greeting and closed the door. When she raised the veil and he saw it was Pancha Lopez he was at oncerelieved and exasperated. Her manner did not tend to remove hisirritation. Leaning against the table, her face very white, she lookedat him without speaking. Had not the sight of her just then beenextremely unwelcome, the melodrama of the whole thing--the veil, thepallid face, the dramatic silence--would have amused him. As it was helooked anything but amused, rising from the armchair, his brows drawntogether in an ugly frown. 

"What on earth brings you here?" was his greeting. 

"You, " she answered. 

Her voice, husky and breathless, matched the rest of the crazyperformance. He saw an impending scene, and under his anger had afeeling of grievance. This was more than he deserved. He gave her anironical bow. 

"That's very flattering, I'm sure, and I'm highly honored. But, my dearPancha, pardon me if I say I don't like it. It's not my custom to seeladies up here. "

"Don't talk like that to me, Boyé, " she said, the huskiness of her tonedeepening. "Don't put on style and act like you didn't know me. We'repast that. "

He shrugged. 

"Answer for yourself, Pancha. Believe me, I'm not at all past conformingto the usages of civilized people. " He had moved back to the fireplace, and leaning against the mantel waited for her to reply. As she did not doso, he said, "Let me repeat, I don't like your coming here. "

Her eyes, level and fixed, were disconcerting. To avoid them he turned tothe mantel and took up a cigarette and matches lying there. 

"Then why don't you come to see me?" she said. 

"Teh--Teh!" He put the cigarette between his teeth and struck the matchon the shelf. "Haven't I told you I'm busy?"

"Yes, you've _told_ me that. "

"Well?"

"You've told me lies. "

"Thank you. " He was occupied lighting the cigarette. 

"Why, when I telephoned an hour ago and gave my name, did you say youwere out?"

He affected an air of forbearance. 

"Because I happened to be out. "

"Boyé, that's another lie. "

He threw the match into the fireplace and turned his eyes on her full ofa steely dislike. 

"Look here, Pancha. You've bothered me a lot lately, calling me up, nagging at me about things I couldn't help. I'm not the kind of man thatlikes that; I'm not the kind that stands it. I've been a friend of yoursand hope to stay so, but--"

She cut him off, her voice trembling with passion. 

"_Friend_--you a friend! _You_ who do nothing but put me off withlies--who are trying to shake me, throw me away like an old shoe!"

Her restraint was gone. With her shoulders raised and her chin thrustforward, the thing she had been, and still was--child of the lowerdepths, bred in its ways--was revealed to him. It made him afraid of her, seeing possibilities he had not grasped before. What he had thought to beharmless and powerless might become one more menacing element in thedangers that surrounded him. His natural caution put a check upon hisanger. He tried to speak with a soothing good humor. 

"Now, my dear girl, don't talk like that. It's not true in the firstplace, it's stupid in the second, and in the third it only tends to makebad feeling between us that there's no cause for. "

"Oh, yes, there's cause, lots of cause. "

He found her steady eyes more discomfiting than ever, and looking at hiscigarette said:

"Panchita, you're not yourself. You're overworked and overwrought, imagining things that don't exist. Instead of standing there slanging meyou ought to go home and take a rest. "

She paid no attention to this suggestion, but suddenly, movingnearer, said:

"What did you do it for, Boyé?"

"Do what?"

"Make love to me--make me think you loved me. Why did you come? Why didyou say what you did? Why did you kiss me? Why, when you saw the way Ifelt, did you keep on? What good was it to you?"

To gain a moment's time, and to hide his face from her haggard gaze, heturned and put the cigarette carefully on the stand of the matchsafe. Hefound it difficult to keep the soothing note in his voice. 

"Why--why--why? I don't see any need for these questions? What _did_ Ido? A kiss! What's that? And you talk as if I'd ceased to care for you. Of course I haven't. I always will. I don't know anyone I think more ofthan I do of you. That's why I want you to go. You don't look well, andas I told you before, it's not the right thing for you to be here. "

She was beside him and he laid his hand on her arm, gentle andpersuasive. She snatched the arm away, and with a small, feeble fiststruck him in the chest and gasped out an epithet of the people. 

For a still moment they stood looking at one another. Both faces showedthat bitterest of antagonisms--the hate of one-time lovers. She saw itin his and it increased her desperation, he in her's, and in the uprushof his anger he forgot his fear. She spoke first, her voice low, herbreathing loud on the room's stillness. 

"You could fool me once, but it's too late now. There's no coming over meany more with soft talk. "

"Then I'll not try it. Take it from me straight. I've come to the end ofmy patience. I've had enough of you and your exactions. "

"Oh, you needn't tell me _that_, " she cried. "I know it, and I know why. I know the secret of _your_ change of heart, Mr. Boyé Mayer. "

She saw the alarm in his face, the sudden arrested attention. 

"What are you talking about?" he said, too startled to feignindifference. 

"Oh, you thought no one was on, " she cried, backing away from him, "but_I_ was. I've been for the past month. Four hundred thousand dollars!Think of it, Boyé! You're getting on in the world. Some differencebetween that and an actress at the Albion. "

If Pancha had still cherished a hope that she might have been mistaken, the sight of Mayer's rage would have extinguished it. He made a steptoward her, hard-eyed, pale as she was. 

"You're mad. That's what's the matter with you. I might have known itwhen you came. Now go--I don't want any lunatics here. "

She stood her ground and tried to laugh, a horrible sound. 

"You don't even like me to know that. Won't even share a secret withme--me, the friend that you care for so much. "

"Go!" he thundered and pointed to the door. 

"Not till I hear more, I'm curious. Is it just the money, or would youlike the lady even if she hadn't any?"

Exasperated beyond reason he made a pounce at her and caught her by thearm. This time his grasp was too strong for her to shake off. His fingersclosed on the slender stem and closing shook it. 

"Since you won't go, I'll have to help you, " he breathed in his fury. 

She squirmed in his grip, trying to pull his fingers away with her freehand, and in this humiliating fashion felt herself drawn toward the door. It was the last consummate insult, his superior strength triumphing. Ifhe had loosed her she would have gone, but anything he did she was boundto resist, most of all his hand upon her. That, once the completestcomfort, was now the crowning ignominy. 

As he pushed her, short sentences of savage hostility flashed betweenthem, sparks struck from a mutual hate. Hers betrayed the rude beginningsshe had tried to hide, his the falseness of his surface finish. It was asif for the first time they had established a real understanding. Atgrips, filled with fury, they attained a sudden intimacy, the hidden selfof each at last plain to the other. 

The scene was interrupted in an unexpected and ridiculous manner--thetelephone rang. As the bell whirred he stopped irresolute, his fingerstight on her arm. Then, as it rang again, he looked at her with a sort ofenraged helplessness, and made a movement to draw her to the phone. Anoutsider would have laughed, but the two protagonists were beyond comedy, and glared at one another in dumb defiance. Finally, the bell filling theroom with its clamor, there was nothing for it but to answer. With grimlips and a murderous eye on his opponent, Mayer dropped her arm, andgoing to the phone, took down the receiver. From the other end, plaintive and apologetic, came Chrystie's voice. 

Pancha retreated to the door, opened it and came to a halt on the sill. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of her watching him, a balefulfigure. He feared to employ the tenderness of tone necessary in hisconversations with Chrystie, and as he listened and made out that shewanted to break her next engagement, he turned and fastened a gorgon'sglance on the woman in the doorway, jerking his head in a gesture ofdismissal. 

She answered it with ominous quiet, "When I've finished. I've just onemore thing to say. "

In desperation he turned to the mouthpiece and said as softly as hedared:

"Wait a minute. The window's open and I can't hear. I must shut it, " thenput the receiver against his chest and muttered:

"Do you want me to kill you?"

"Not yet--after I get square you can. I won't care then what you do. ButI've got to get square and I'm going to. There's Indian in me and that'sthe blood that doesn't forget. And there's something else you don'tknow--yes, there _was_ something I never told you. I've someone to fightmy fights and hit my enemies, and if I can't get you, they can. Watchout and see. "

She retreated, closing the door. Mayer had to resume his conversationwith the blood drumming in his ears, uplift Chrystie's flagging spirit, and shift their engagement to another day. When it was over he fell onthe sofa, limp and exhausted. He lay there till dinner time, thinkingover what Pancha had said, and what she could do, assuring himself it wasonly bluff, the impotent threatenings of a discarded woman. He feltcertain that the champion she had alluded to was her one-time admirer, the bandit. This being the case, there was nothing to be feared fromhim, in hiding in the wilderness. It would be many a day before he'dventure forth. But the girl herself, full of venom, burning with thesense of her wrongs, was a new factor in the perils of his position. Stronger now than ever was this conviction that he must hurry his schemesto their climax. 

CHAPTER XXII

THEREBY HANGS A TALE

That same evening the audience at the Albion had a disappointment. Athalf past eight the manager appeared before the curtain and said thatMiss Lopez was ill and could not appear. As they all knew, she had beenan unremitting worker, had given them of her best, and in her love of herart and her public had worn herself out and suffered a nervous breakdown. A week or two of rest would restore her, and meantime her place would betaken by Miss Lottie Vere. 

The audience, not knowing what was expected of them, applauded and thenlooked at one another in aggrieved surprise. They felt rather peevish, for they had come to regard Pancha Lopez as a permanent institutiondevised for their amusement. They no more expected her to fail them thanthe clock in the Ferry Tower to be wrong. Charlie Crowder heard it at the_Despatch_ office next morning--Mrs. Wesson, who picked up local newslike a wireless, met him on the stairs and told him. 

"I'm glad she's given in at last, " said the good-natured societyreporter. "She's been running down hill for the past month, and if she'dkept on much longer she'd have run to the place where you jump off. "

That afternoon Crowder went round to see her. There was no use phoning, the Vallejo was still in that archaic stage where the only telephone wasin the lower hall and guests were called to it by the clerk. Besides, younever could tell about a girl like Pancha; she was half a savage, liableto lie curled up in a corner and never think of a doctor. 

He found her on the sofa in her sitting-room, a box of crackers and abottle of milk on the table, a ragged Navajo blanket over her feet. Whenshe saw who it was she sat up with a cry of welcome, her wrapper fallingloose from her brown neck. She looked very ill, her eyes dark-circled andsunken in her wasted face. 

He sat beside her on the sofa's edge--she was so thin there was plentyof room--and taking her hand held it while he tried to hide the concernthat seized him. After the first sentence of greeting she fell back onthe crumpled pillow, and lay still, the little flicker of animationdying out. 

"Well, well, Panchita, " he said, patting her hand, a kindly awkwardfigure hunched up in his big overcoat; "this is something new for you. "

She made an agreeing movement with her head, her glance resting where itfell, too languid to move. 

"I seem to be all in, " she murmured. 

"Just played out?"

"Looks that way. "

"I didn't know till this morning--Mrs. Wesson told me. How did ithappen?"

"I don't know, I got all weak. It was last night. "

"At the theater?"

"No, here, in my room. I kept feeling worse and worse, but I thought Icould pull through. And then I knew I couldn't and I got down to thephone some way and told them. And then I came back here and--I don'tknow--I sort of broke to pieces. "

As she completed the sentence tears suddenly welled into her eyes andbegan to run, unchecked, in shining drops down her cheeks. She drew herhand from Crowder's and turning on her side placed it and its fellowover her face and wept, a river of tears that came softly without sobs. Crowder was overwhelmed. He had never thought his friend could be sobroken, never had imagined her weak as other women, bereft of hergallant pride. 

"Oh, Pancha, " he said, unutterably distressed, "you poor girl! I'm sosorry, I'm so awfully sorry. " He crooned over her in his rough man'stenderness, stroking her hair. "You've worked yourself to the bone. Youought to have given in sooner, you've kept it up too long. "

Her voice came smothered through the shielding hands:

"It's not that, Charlie, it's not that. "

This surprised him exceedingly. That any other cause than overwork couldso reduce her had never occurred to him. Had she some ailment--somehidden suffering--preying on her? He thought of the Indian's stoicism andwas filled with apprehension. 

"Well, then, what is it?" he asked. "Are you ill?"

She moved her head in silent negation. 

"But if it isn't work, it must be something. A girl as strong as youdoesn't collapse without a reason. "

She dropped her hands and sat up. Her face was brought on a levelwith his, the swollen eyes blinking through tears, the mouth twistedand pitiful. 

"It's pain, it's pain, Charlie, " she quavered. 

"Then you _are_ sick, " he said, now thoroughly alarmed. 

"No--it's not my body, it's my heart. It's here. " She clasped her handsover her heart, and suddenly closing her eyes rocked back and forth. "Alittle while ago I was so happy. I never was like that before--everyminute of the day lovely. And then it was all changed, it all ended. Icouldn't believe it. I wouldn't believe it. I kept saying 'it'll come allright, nothing so awful could happen to anyone. ' But it could--it did. And it's that that's made me this way--to be so full of joy and then tohave it snatched away. It's too much, Charlie. Even I couldn't standit--I who once thought nothing could beat me. "

Crowder had had a wide experience in exhibitions of human suffering, buthe had never seen anything quite like this. Tenderness was not what wasneeded, and, his eyes stern on her working face, he said with quietauthority:

"Pancha, I don't get what this means. Now, like a good girl, tell me. I've got to know. "

Then and there, without more urging, she told him. 

She told her story truthfully as far as she went, but she did not go tothe end. All the preceding night, the interview with Mayer, had repeateditself in her memory, bitten itself in in every brutal detail. Hatetrailed after it a longing to repay in kind and she saw herself impotent. The threat of her father's championship, snatched at in blind rage, sheknew meant nothing, the boast of "getting square" was empty. Subtlety washer only weapon and now in her confession to Crowder she employed it. What she told of Mayer's conduct was true, but she did not tell what toher was a mitigating circumstance--the counter-attraction of Chrystie. The lure of money was to this child of poverty an excuse for her lover'sdesertion. Even Crowder, her friend, might condone a transfer ofaffection from Pancha Lopez to the daughter of George Alston. So theyoung man, hearing the story ended, saw Mayer as Pancha intended himto--a blackguard, breaking a girl's heart for pastime. 

"The dog!" he muttered. "The cur! Why didn't you tell me? I'd have sizedhim up for you. "

"I believed him, I thought it was true. And I was afraid you'dinterfere--tell me it was all wrong. "

The young man shifted his eyes from her face and stifled a comment. Itwas no time now to reproach her. There was a moment's silence and thenshe broke out into the query, put so often to herself, put to Mayer, tormenting and inexplicable. 

"Why did he do it--why did he begin it? It was he who came, sought meout, gave me flowers. He'd come whenever I'd let him--and he was sointerested, couldn't hear enough about me. There wasn't any little thingin my life he didn't want to know. Every man who'd ever come near me he'dwant me to tell him about, he'd just _hound_ me to tell him. What madehim do it? Was it all a fake from the beginning, and if it was did he doit just for sport?"

Crowder had no answer for these plaints. He was deeply moved, shocked andindignant, more than he let her see. "An ugly business, a d----d uglybusiness, " he growled, his honest face overcast with sympathy, his hand, big and not over clean, lying on hers. 

"Never mind, old girl, " he said; "we'll pull you out, we'll get you onyour feet again. We've got to do that before we turn our attention tohim. I guess he's got a weak spot and I'll find it before I'm done. Whois he, anyway--where does he come from--what's he doing here? He's tood----d reserved to come out well in the wash. You keep still and leavethe rest to me. I'm not your old pal for nothing. "

But his encouragement met with no response. Her heart unburdened, shelapsed into apathy and dropped back on the pillow, her spurt ofenergy over. 

He lighted the light and tried to make her eat, but she pushed away theglass of milk he offered and begged him to let her be. So there wasnothing for it but to make her as comfortable as he could, draw the tableto her side, straighten the Navajo blanket and get another pillow fromthe bedroom. Tomorrow morning he would send in a doctor and on his wayout stop at the office and leave a message for the chambermaid to look inon her during the evening. She answered his good-by with a nod and aslight, twisted smile, the first he had seen on her face. 

"Lord!" he thought as he closed the door, "she looks half dead. How I'dlike to get my hooks into that man!"

Downstairs he gave the clerk instructions and left a tip for thechambermaid--a doctor would come in the morning and he would look inhimself in the course of the day. She was to want for nothing; if therewas any expense he'd be responsible. On the way up the street he boughtfruit, magazines and the evening papers and ordered them sent to her. 

The next morning he found time to drop into the Argonaut Hotel for a chatwith Ned Murphy. The chat, touching lightly on the business of the place, drifted without effort to Mr. Mayer, always to Ned Murphy, an engagingtopic. Crowder went away not much the wiser. Mayer, if a little offish, was as satisfactory a guest as any hotel could ask for--paid his billweekly, always in gold, gave no trouble, and lived pretty quiet andretired, only now and then going to the country on business. What thebusiness was Ned Murphy didn't know--he'd been off five times now, leaving in the morning and coming back the next day. But he wasn't thekind to talk--you couldn't get next him. It was evident that Ned Murphytook a sort of proprietary pride in the stately unapproachableness of thestar lodger. 

In the shank of the afternoon, Crowder, at work in the city room, wascalled to the phone. The person speaking was Mark Burrage and hiscommunication was mysterious and urgent. The night before, in a curiousand unexpected manner, he had received some information of a deeplyinteresting nature upon which he wanted to consult Crowder. Would Crowdermeet him at Philip's Rotisserie that evening at seven and arrange to cometo his room afterward for an hour? The matter was important, and Crowdermust hustle and fix it if it could be done. Crowder said it could, and, shut off from further parley by an abrupt "So long, " was left wondering. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CHINESE CHAIN

What Mark had heard was, as he had said, interesting. It had beenimparted in an interview as startling as it was unexpected, which hadtaken place in his room the evening before. 

He was sitting by the table reading, the radiance of a green droplightfalling over the litter of papers and across his shoulder to the page ofhis book. The room, at the back of the house, had been chosen as much forits quiet as its low rent. A few of his own possessions relieved theugliness of its mean furnishings, and it had acquired from his occupancya lived-in, comfortable look. Two windows at the back framing the nightsky were open, and the soft April air flowed in upon an atmosphere, smoke-thickened and heated with the lamplight. 

Interruptions were unusual--a call to the telephone in the lower hall, arare visitor, Crowder or a college friend. This was why, when a knockfell on the door, he looked up, surprised. It was an unusual knock, softand low, not like the landlady's irritated summons, or Crowder's brusquerat-tat. In answer to his "Come in, " the door swung slowly back and inthe aperture appeared Fong. 

He wore the Chinaman's outdoor costume, the dark, loose upper garmentfastening tight round the base of the throat, the short, wide trousers, and on his head a black felt hat. Under the brim of this his face wore anexpression of hesitating inquiry as if he were not sure of his reception. 

"Why, hello!" said Mark, dropping his book in surprise; "it's Fong!"

The old man, his hand on the doorknob, spoke with apologetic gentleness. 

"I want see you, Mist Bullage--you no mind if I come in? I want see youand talk storlies with you. "

"First-rate, come ahead in and take a seat. "

Closing the door noiselessly Fong moved soft-footed to a chair beside thetable. Here, taking off his hat and putting it in his lap, he fixed alook on Burrage that might have been the deep gaze of a sage or thevacant one of a child. The green-shaded lamp sent a bright, downward gushof light over his legs, its mellowed upper glow shining on his forehead, high and bare to his crown. He had the curious, sexless appearance ofelderly Chinamen; might have been, with his tapering hands, flowing coat, and hairless face, an old, monkey-like woman. 

"Well, " said Mark, stretching a hand for his pipe, thinking his visitorhad come to pay a friendly call, "I'm glad to see you, Fong, and I'mready to talk all the storlies you want. So fire away. "

Fong considered, studying his hat, then said slowly:

"You velly good man, Mist Bullage, and you lawyer. You know what todo--I dunno no one same likey you. Miss Lolly and Miss Clist two youngladies--not their business. And Missy Ellen"--he paused for a second andgave a faint sigh--"Missy Ellen velly fine old lady, but no sense. Myold boss's fliends most all dead, new lawyers take care of his money. They say to me, 'Get out, old Chinaman!' But you don't say that. So Icome to you. "

Mark's hand, extended to the tobacco jar at his elbow, fell to the chairarm; the easy good humor of his expression changed to attention. 

"Oh, you've come for advice. I'll be glad to help you any way I can. Let's hear the trouble. "

Again the Chinaman considered, fingering delicately at his hatbrim. 

"My old boss awful good to me. He die and no more men in the house. Itake care my boss's children--I care all ways I can. Old Chinaman can'tdo much but I watch out. And one man come that I no likey. I know yougood boy, I know all the lest good boys, but Mist Mayer bad man. "

"Mayer!" exclaimed Mark. "The man I met there the other night?"

"Ally samey him. "

"What do you mean by 'bad'?"

"I come tell you tonight. "

"You know something definite against him?"

"Yes. I find out. I try long time--one, two months--and bimeby I gethim. Then he not come for a while and I say maybe he not come any moreand I keep my mouth shut. But when you there last time he come again andI go tell what I know. "

"You've found out something that makes you think he isn't a fit person tohave in the house ?"

"Yes--I go velly careful, no one know but Chinamen. Two Chinamen helpme--one Chinaman get another Chinaman and we catch on. I no tell MissLolly, she too young; I come tell you. "

Mark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. 

"Say, Fong, I'm a little mixed up about this. Suppose you go to thebeginning and give me the whole thing. If you and this chain of Chinaboys have got something on Mayer I want to hear it. I'm not surprisedthat you think him a 'bad man, ' but I want to know why you do. "

What Fong told cannot be given in his own words, recited in his pidginEnglish, broken by cautions of secrecy and digressions as to theimpracticability of enlightening his young ladies. It was a story only tobe comprehended by one familiar with his peculiar phraseology, andunderstanding the complex mental processes and intricate methods of hisrace. Condensed and translated, it amounted to this:

From the first he had doubted and distrusted Mayer. In his dog-likeloyalty to his "old boss, " his love for the children that he regarded ashis charge, he had personally studied and, through the subterranean linesof information in Chinatown, inquired into the character and standing ofevery man that entered the house. Sometimes when Mayer was there, he hadstood behind the dining-room door and listened to the conversation in theparlor. The more he saw of the man the more his distrust grew. Asked why, he could give no reason; he either had no power to put his intuition intowords, or--what is more probable--did not care to do so. 

Two months before the present date a friend of his, member of the sametong, was made cook in the Argonaut Hotel. This gave him the opportunityto set in action one of those secret systems of espionage at which theOriental is proficient. The cook, confined to his kitchen, became acommunicating link between Fong and Jim, the room boy who attended toMayer's apartment. Jim, evidently paid for his services and described as"an awful smart boy, " was instructed to watch Mayer and note anythingwhich might throw light on his character and manner of life. 

To an unsuspecting eye the result of Jim's investigations would haveseemed insignificant. That Mayer gambled and had lost heavily the threemen already knew from the gossip of Chinatown. The room boy'sinformation was confined to small points of personal habit and behavior. Among Mayer's effects, concealed in the back of his closet, was a wornand decrepit suitcase which he always carried when he went on hisbusiness trips. These trips occurred at intervals of about six weeks, andin his casual allusions to them to Ned Murphy and Jim himself he hadnever mentioned their objective point. 

It was his habit to breakfast in his room, the meal being brought up on atray by Jim and being paid for in cash each morning. For two andsometimes three days before the trips, Mayer always signed a receipt forthe breakfast, but on his return he again paid in cash. Through abellboy, who had admitted Jim to a patronizing intimacy, the astuteOriental had extended his field of observation. One of this boy's dutieswas to carry the mail to the rooms of the guests. For some weeks afterhis arrival Mayer had received almost no mail. After that letters hadcome for him, but all had borne the local postmark. The boy neverremembered to have seen a letter for Mayer from New York, the cityentered on the register as his home. Through this boy Jim had alsogleaned the information that Mayer invariably paid his room rent in coin. He had heard Ned Murphy comment on the fact. 

From this scanty data Fong and his associates drew certain conclusions. Mayer had no bank account, but he had plenty of money. Besides his way ofliving, his losses at gambling proved it. His funds ran low before hisjourneys out of town, suggesting that these journeys were visits to somesource of supply. Arrived thus far they decided to extend their spying. The next time Mayer left the city Jim was paid to follow him. The roomboy waited for the familiar signs, and when one morning Mayer told himto bring a check slip for his breakfast, went to the housekeeper andasked for a leave of absence to visit a sick "cousin. " The following dayJim sat in the common coach, Mayer in the Pullman, of the Overland train. 

Alighting at Sacramento the Chinaman followed his quarry into thedepot and saw him enter the washroom, presently to emerge dressed inclothes he had never seen, though his study of Mayer's wardrobe hadbeen meticulously thorough. He noted every detail--unshined, brown, low shoes, an overcoat faded across the shoulders, a Stetson hat witha sweat-stained band, no collar and a flashy tie. He did not thinkthat anyone, unless on the watch as he was, would have recognizedMayer thus garbed. 

From there he had trailed the man to the Whatcheer House. Dodging aboutoutside the window he watched him register at the desk, then disappear inthe back of the office. A few minutes later Jim went in and asked theclerk for a job. This functionary, sweeping him with a careless cast ofhis eye, said they had no work for a Chinaman and went back to hispapers. During the moment of colloquy Jim had looked at the last entry inthe register open before him. Later he had written it down and Fonghanded the slip of paper to Mark. On it, in the clear round hand of theChinaman who goes to night school, was written "Harry Romaine, Vancouver. "

This brought Fong to the end of his discoveries. Having come upon amatter so much more momentous than he had expected, he was baffled andhad brought his perplexities to a higher court. His Oriental subtlety haddone its part and he was now prepared to let the Occidental go on fromwhere he had left off. Mark inwardly thanked heaven that the old man hadcome to him. It insured secrecy, meant a carrying of the investigationto a climax and put him in a position where he could feel himself of useto Lorry. If to the Chinaman George Alston's house was a place set apartand sacred, it was to her undeclared lover a shrine to be kept free atany cost from such an intruder as Mayer. It did not occur to him asstrange that Fong should have chosen him to carry on the good work. Inthe astonished indignation that the story had aroused he saw nothing butthe fact that a soiled and sinister presence had entered the home of agirl, young, ignorant and peculiarly unprotected. Neither he nor Fongfelt the almost comic unusualness of the situation--an infrequent guestcalled upon by an old retainer to help run to earth another guest. Asthey sat side by side at the table each saw only the fundamentalthing--from separate angles the interests of both converged to the samecentral point. 

At this stage Mark was unwilling to offer advice. They must know morefirst, and to that end he told Fong to bring Jim to his room thefollowing night at eight. Meantime he would think it over and work outsome plan. The next day he sent the phone message to Crowder and thatnight told him the story over dinner at Philip's Rôtisserie. 

It threw Crowder into tense excitement; he became the journalist on thescent of a sensation. He was so carried away by its possibilities that heforgot Pancha's part in the unfolding drama. It was not till they werewalking to Mark's lodging that he remembered and stopped short, exclaiming:

"By Ginger, I'd forgotten! Another county heard from; it's coming in fromall sides. "

So Pancha's experience was added to the case against Mayer, andbreasting the hills, the young men talked it over, Crowder leapingto quick conclusions, impulsive, imagination running riot, Mark morejudicial, confining himself to what facts they had, warning againsthasty judgments. The talk finally veered to the Alston's and Markhad a question to ask that he had not liked to put to Fong. He movedto it warily--did Mayer go to the Alston house often, was he aconstant visitor?

"Well, I don't know how constant, but I do know he goes. I've met himthere a few times. "

"He hasn't been after either of them--his name hasn't been connectedwith theirs?"

"Oh, no--nothing like that. He's just one of the bunch that drops in. Iwas jollying Chrystie about him the other night and she seemed to dismisshim in an offhand sort of fashion. "

"He oughtn't to go at all. He oughtn't to be allowed inside their doors. "

"Right, old son. But there's no good scaring them till we know more. Hecan't do them any harm. "

"Harm, no. But a blackguard like that calling on those girls--it'ssickening. "

"Right again, and if we get anything on him it's up to us to keep themout of the limelight. It won't be hard. He only went to their house nowand again as he went to lots of others. If this Chinese story pans out aspromising as it looks, then we can put Lorry wise and tell her to hangout the 'not at home' sign when Mr. Mayer comes around. But we don't wantto do that till we've good and ample reason. Lorry's the kind that alwayswants a reason--especially when it comes to turning down someone sheknows. No good upsetting the girl till we've got something positive totell her. "

Mark agreed grudgingly and then they left the Alston sisters, to work outthe best method of discovering what took Boyé Mayer to Sacramento andwhat he did there. 

Jim proved to be a young, and as Fong had said, "awful smart boy. "Smuggled into the country in his childhood, he spoke excellent English, interspersed with slang. He repeated his story with a Chinaman'sunimaginative exactness, not a detail changed, omitted or overemphasized. The young men were impressed by him, intelligent, imperturbable andself-reliant, a man admirably fitted to put in execution the move theyhad decided on. This turned on his ability to insinuate himself into theWhatcheer House and by direct observation find out the nature of thebusiness that required an alias and a disguise. 

Jim said it could easily be done. By the payment of a small sum--fivedollars--he could induce the present room boy in the Whatcheer House tofeign illness, and be installed as a substitute. The custom among Chineseservants when sick to fill the vacancy they leave with a friend or"cousin" is familiar to all Californians. The housewife, finding astrange boy in her kitchen and asking where he comes from, receives thecalm reply that the old boy is sick, and the present incumbent has beencalled upon to take his place. Mayer's last visit to Sacramento had beenmade three weeks previously. Arguing from past data this would place thenext one at two or three weeks from the present time. But, during thelast few days, Jim had noticed a change in the man. He had kept to hisroom, been irritable and preoccupied, had asked for a railway guide andbeen seen by Jim in close study of it. To wait till he made his next tripmeant running the risk of missing him. It would be wiser to go toSacramento and be on the spot, even if the time so spent ran to weeks. The room boy could easily be fixed--another five dollars would do that. 

So it was settled. The young men, pooling their resources, would payJim's expenses, ten dollars for the room boy, and a bonus of fifty. If hebrought back important information this would be raised to a hundred. When he came back he was to communicate with Fong, who in turn wouldcommunicate with Mark, and a date for meeting be set. It was now Monday;arrangements for his temporary absence from the Argonaut Hotel could bemade the next morning, and he would leave for Sacramento in theafternoon. 

CHAPTER XXIV

LOVERS AND LADIES

Mayer was putting his affairs in order, preparatory to flight. A finalinterview with Chrystie would place him where he wanted to be, and thatwould be followed by a visit to Sacramento and a withdrawal of whatremained of his money. He had a little over two thousand dollars left, enough to get them to New York and keep them there for a month or so in agood hotel. Before this would be expended he would have gained socomplete an ascendancy over her that the control of her fortune would bein his hands. Payment of a gambling debt of three hundred and fiftydollars--owed him now for some weeks--had been promised on the followingMonday. He would go to Sacramento on Saturday or Sunday, get this moneyon his return and then all would be ready for his exit. 

He went over it point by point, scanning it closely, viewing it in itsfull extent, weighing, studying, determined that no detail should beoverlooked. Outwardly his serenity was unruffled; his veiled eye showedits customary cool indifference, his manner its ironical suavity. Inwardly he was taut as a racer, his toe to the line, waiting for thestarting signal. There were moments, pacing up and down his room, when hefelt chilled by freezing air currents, as if icebergs might have suddenlyfloated down Montgomery Street and come to anchor opposite the hotel. 

There were so many unexpected menaces--the man Burrage that he might runagainst anywhere, Pancha, a jealous virago--nobody knew what a woman inthat state mightn't do--and Chrystie herself. In the high tension of hisnerves she was indescribably irritating, full of moods, preyed upon bygnawings of conscience. He had already given her an outline of his plan, tentatively suggested it--you had to suggest things tentatively toChrystie--drawn lightly a romantic picture of their flight on theOverland to Reno. 

They were to leave on Tuesday night, reaching Reno the next morning andthere alighting for the marriage. He had chosen the night train as theleast conspicuous. Chrystie could be shut up in a stateroom and he onguard outside where he could keep his eye on the door--it was more like akidnaping than an elopement. At other times he might have laughed, but hewas far from laughing now. It wasn't someone else's distressingpredicament, it was his own. 

When he had explained it he had met with one of those maddeningstupidities of hers that strained his forbearance to the breaking point. How could she get away without Lorry knowing--Lorry always knew where shewent? She was miserable over it, sitting close against his shoulder on abench opposite the Greek Church. 

"How about going for a few days to your friends, the Barlows, at SanMateo?" he had said, his hand folded tight on hers. 

"The Barlows!" she exclaimed. "The Barlows haven't asked me. "

That was the sort of thing she was always saying and he had to answerwith patient softness. 

"I know that, dear one, but why can't you tell Lorry that they have. They're going to have a dance and a house party and they want you tocome on Tuesday and stay over till, say Thursday or Friday. "

She cogitated, looking very troubled. He was becoming used to theexpression, it invariably followed his promptings to falsehood. 

"I suppose I could, " she murmured. 

He pressed the hand tenderly. 

"I don't want to urge you to do anything you don't like, but I don't seewhat else there is for it. It's not really our fault that we have to runaway--it's Lorry's. You've said yourself that she'd make objections, notto our way of doing things, but to me. "

Chrystie nodded. 

"She would. I'd have a fight to marry you anyway. "

No one was in sight and he raised the gloved hand and pressed it to hislips. Dropping it he purred:

"We don't want any fights. We don't want our joy marred by bickerings andinterference. "

Chrystie agreed to that and then muttered in gloomy repudiation ofLorry's prejudices:

"I don't see why she feels that way about you. Nobody else does. "

"We won't bother about that. She doesn't have to love me. Perhaps laterI'll be able to prove to her that her brother-in-law isn't such a badchap after all. " He shifted a little closer, flicking up with apossessive finger a strand of golden hair that had fallen across hercheek, and murmuring his instructions into the shell pink ear his handbrushed. "You tell her you've had an invitation from the Barlows to comedown on Tuesday and stay till Friday. Say they're going to have a party. That being the case you'll take a good-sized trunk. Give the orderyourself to the expressman and tell him to send it to the ferry and whenyou get there check it to Reno. Then you leave the house in time tocatch the late afternoon train to San Mateo and as soon as you get out ofsight order your driver to take you to the ferry. You'd better cross atonce and do what waiting you'll have on the Oakland side. "

"You'll be there?" she said, stirring uneasily. 

"Yes, but I won't speak to you. "

"Oh, dear"--it was almost a wail--"how I wish we could be married at homelike Christians!"

"My darling, my darling, don't make it any harder for me. You neverwanted anything in your life as much as I want to take your hand and callyou mine before the eyes of the whole world. But it's impossible--youyourself were the first to say so. We don't want a family row, a scandal, all in the papers. Love mustn't be dragged through that sort ofignominy. "

She thought so, too; she always agreed with him when he talked of love. But he had to come down to earth and the Barlows, finding it necessary toinstruct her even in such small matters as how she was to get the letterfrom them. She was simply to tell Lorry such a letter had come and shehad answered it, accepting the invitation. It was perfectlysimple--didn't she see?

She saw, her head drooped, telling Lorry about that letter which wasnever to arrive and that answer which was never to be written, bringingback the old, sick qualms. There had to be more inspiring talk of lovebefore she was brought up to the point where he dared to leave her, felthis influence strong enough to last till the next meeting. He wonderedirascibly if all home-bred, nice young girls were such fools and realizedwhy he'd never liked them. 

That same afternoon Lorry had a visitor. While Chrystie was walking home, poised on the edge of the great exploit, at one moment seeing the tumultleft by her flight, at the next that flight, wing and wing, through thegolden future with her eagle mate, Lorry was sitting in the drawing-roomtalking to Mark Burrage. 

He had not told Crowder that he was going, had not decided to go tillthe morning after he had seen Crowder and the two Chinamen. When theyhad gone he had sat pondering, and that question which he had not likedto ask Fong and which he had only tentatively put to his friend, rose, insistent, demanding a more informed answer. Was this man--more thanobjectionable, probably criminal--paying court to Lorry? It was ahorrible idea, that haunted him throughout the night. He recalledMayer's manner to her the evening of his visit, and hers to him. Notthat he thought she could have been attracted to the man; she was toofine, her instincts too true. But on the other hand she was young, sounlearned in the world's ways, so liable to be duped through her owninnocence. His thoughts swung like a pendulum from point of torment topoint of torment and in the morning he rose, determined on the visit. Itwas to satisfy himself and if possible drop a hint of warning. He neverthought of Chrystie. She was a child and on that evening Mayer hadtreated her as such, paying her only the scanty meed of attention thatpoliteness demanded. 

When he started for the house he had entered on a new phase in hisrelation to her. He was no longer the humble visitor, overawed by herriches, but someone whose business it was to watch over and take care ofher. It bridged the gulf between them, swept away artificialdistinctions. He forgot himself, his awkwardness, how he impressed her. These once important considerations ceased to exist and a man, concernedabout a woman, feeling his obligations to look after her, emerged fromthe hobbledehoy that had once been Marquis de Lafayette Barrage. 

She saw the change at the first glance. It was in his face, in hismanner, no longer diffident, assured, almost commanding. Their positionswere transformed, she less a fine lady, queening it amid the evidences ofher wealth, than a girl, lonely and uncared for, he the dominating, masculine presence that her life had lacked. The woman in her, slowlyunfolding in secret potency, felt his ascendancy and bloomed into fullerbeing. They were conscious of the constraint and shyness that had beenbetween them giving place to a gracious ease, of having suddenlyexperienced a harmonious adjustment that had come about without effort orintention. 

Over the smooth, sweet sense of it they talked on indifferent matter, items of local importance, small social doings, the Metropolitan OperaCompany which was to open its season on the following Monday night. Itwas wonderful how interesting everything was, how they passed fromsubject to subject. They had so much to say that the shadows were risingin the distant end of the room before Mark came to the real matter ofmoment. It was proof of the change in him that he did not grope andblunder to it but brought it forward with one abrupt question. 

"Who is Mr. Mayer that I met here the other night?"

"Well--he's just Mr. Mayer--a man from the East who's in California forhis health. That's all I know about him, except that he lived a long timein Europe when he was a boy and a young man. "

"How did you come to meet him?"

"Through Mrs. Kirkham, an old friend of Mother's. She brought him hereand then we asked him to dinner. " She paused, but the young man, his eyeson the ground, making no comment, she concluded with, "Did you think hewas interesting?"

He raised his glance to hers and said:

"No--I didn't like him. "

Lorry leaned from her chair, her eyebrows lifted, her expressionmischievously confidential. 

"Then we have one taste in common--neither do I. "

She was surprised to see Mark flush, and his gaze widen to a piercingfixity. She thought her plain speaking had offended him and hastened toexcuse it:

"I know that isn't a nice thing to say about a guest in your house, and Idon't say it to everybody--only to you. Are you shocked?"

"No, I'm relieved. But I couldn't think you would like him. "

"Why? All the other girls do. "

"You're not like the other girls. You're--" He stopped abruptly, againdropped his eyes and said, "He's no good--he's a fake. "

"There!" She was quite eager in her agreement. "That's just theimpression he gives me. I felt it the first time I saw him. "

"Then why do you have him here?"

The note of reprimand was unconscious, but to the young girl it was plainand her heart thrilled in response to its authority. 

"We needed an extra man for our dinner--the dinner that you refusedto come to. "

She laughed at him in roguish triumph, and it was indescribably charming. He joined in, shame-faced, mumbling something about his work. 

"So you see, Mr. Burrage, " she said, "in a sort of way it was yourfault. "

"It's not my fault that he keeps on coming. "

"No, I guess that's mine. I ask him and he has to pay a call. He's_very_ polite about that. "

She laughed again, delighted at this second chance, but now he did notjoin in. Instead he became gravely urgent, much more so than so slight amatter demanded. 

"But look here, Miss Alston, what's the sense of doing that? What's thesense of having a person round you don't like?"

She gave a deprecating shrug. 

"Oh, well, it's not as bad as all that. I have really nothing againsthim; he's always entertaining and pleasant and makes things go off well. It's just my own feeling; I have no reason. I can't discriminate againsthim because of that. "

Mark was silent. It was hateful to him to hear her blaming herself, offering excuses for the truth of her instinct. But he had agreed withCrowder not to tell her, and anyway he had satisfied himself as to hersentiments--she was proof against Mayer's poisonous charm. At this stagehe could enlighten her no further; all that now remained for him to dowas to give her a hint of that guardianship to which he was pledged. 

"It's a big responsibility for you, running a place like this, lettingthe right people in and keeping the wrong ones out. "

"It is, and I don't suppose I do it very well. It was all so new and Iwas so green. "

"Well, it's not a girl's job. You ought to have a watch dog. How wouldI answer?"

She smiled. 

"What would you do--bay on the front steps every time Mr. Mayer came?"

"That's right--show my teeth so he couldn't get at the bell. But, jokingapart, I'd like you to look upon me that way--I mean if you ever wantedanyone to consult with. You're just two girls--you might need a man'shelp--things come up. "

The smile died from her lips. She was surprised, gratefully, sweetlysurprised. 

"Oh, Mr. Burrage, that's very kind of you. "

"No, it's not. The kindness would be on your side, the way it has beenright along. I'd think a lot of it if you'd let me feel that if youwanted help or advice, or anything of that kind, you'd ask it of me. "

Had she looked at him the impassioned earnestness of his face would haveincreased her surprise. But she was looking at the tassel on the chairarm, drawing its strands slowly through her fingers. 

"Perhaps I will some day, " she murmured. 

"Honest--not hesitate to send for me if you ever think I could be of anyservice to you? Will you promise?"

A woman more experienced, more quick in a perception of surfaceindications, might have guessed a weightier matter than the young man'swords implied. Lorry took them as they were, feeling only the heartbehind them. 

"Yes, I'll promise, " she said. 

"Then it's a pact between us. I'll know if you ever want me you'll callon me. And I'll come; I'll come, no matter where I am. "

The room was growing dim, dusk stealing out from its corners into thespace near the long windows where they sat. Their figures, solid anddark in the larger solidity of the two armchairs, were motionless, andin the pause following his words, neither stirred or spoke. It was asilence without embarrassment or constraint, a moment of arrestedexternal cognizances. Each felt the other as close, suddenly glimpsedintimate and real, a flash of finer vision that for an instant held themin subtle communion. Then it passed and they were saying good-by, moving together into the hall. Fong had not yet lighted the gas and itwas very dim there; Mark had to grope for his hat on the stand. Hetouched her hand in farewell, hardly conscious of the physical contact, heard his own mechanical words and her reply. Then the door opened, shutand he was gone. 

Lorry went upstairs to her own room. Her being was permeated with aninner content, radiating like light from a center of peace. She closedher eyes to better feel the comfort of it, to rest upon its infiniteassurance. She had no desire to know whence it rose, did not even askherself if he loved her. From a state of dull distress she had suddenlycome into a consciousness of perfect well-being, leaving behind her apast where she had been troubled and lonely. Their paths, wandering anduncertain, had met, converging on some higher level, where they stoodtogether in a deep, enfolding security. 

She was still motionless in the gathering dusk when Chrystie entered theroom beyond, filling it with silken rustlings and the tapping of highheels. Lorry did not know she was there till she came to the open doorand looked in. 

"Oh, Lorry, is that you? What are you doing sitting like Patience in arocking chair?"

"I don't know--thinking, dreaming. "

Chrystie withdrew with mutterings; could be heard moving about. Suddenlyshe exclaimed, "It's a glorious afternoon, " and then shut a drawer with abang. Presently two short, sharp rings sounded from the hall below andfollowing them her voice rose high and animated:

"That's the mail. I'll go and see if there's anything exciting. "

Lorry heard her turbulent descent of the stairs and came back to arealization of her environment. In a few minutes Chrystie was in her roomagain, a little breathless from her race up the long flight. 

"There're only two letters, " she called. "One for you and one for me. "

Lorry was not interested in letters and made no response, and after apause heard her sister's voice, raised in the same vivacious note:

"Mine's from Lilly Barlow. She wants me to come down on Tuesday and stayover till Friday. They're having a dance. "

"A dance--oh, that'll be lovely. When is it to be?"

"Tuesday night. I'm to go down on the evening train and they'll meet mewith the motor. "

"I'm so glad--you always have a good time there. "

Lorry appeared in the doorway. The room was nearly dark, the last bluelight slanting in through the uncurtained window. By its faintillumination she saw Chrystie's face in the mirror, glum and unsmiling. It was not the expression with which the youngest Miss Alston generallygreeted calls to festivals. 

"What's the matter, Chrystie?" she said. "Don't you want to go?"

The girl wheeled round sharply. 

"Of course I do. Why shouldn't I? Did you ever know me not want to goto a dance?"

"Then you'd better write and accept at once. They're probably putting upother people and they'll want to know if you're coming. "

"I'll do it tonight. There's no such desperate hurry; I can phone down. There's your letter on the bureau. "

She threw herself on the bed, a long, formless shape in the shadowycorner. She lay there without speaking as Lorry took her letter to thewindow and read it. It was from Mrs. Kirkham; a friend had sent her abox for the opera on Tuesday night and she invited both girls. It wouldbe a great occasion, everybody was going, Caruso was to sing. Lorrylooked up from it, quite dismayed; it was too bad that Chrystie wouldmiss it. But Chrystie from the darkness of the bed said she didn't care;she'd rather dance than hear Caruso, or any other singing man--musicbored her anyhow. Lorry left her and went into her own room to write anacceptance for herself and regrets for her sister. 

At nine that night Mark was sitting by his table, his book on his knee, his eyes on the smoke wreaths that lay across the air in light layers, when his dreams were broken by a knock on his door. It was his landladywith a telegram:

"Mother very sick. Pneumonia. Come at once. SADIE. "

There was a train for Stockton in half an hour, and he could make thedistance between the town and the ranch by horse or stage. He made a racefor it and at the station, finding himself a few minutes ahead, took acall for Crowder at the _Despatch_ office and caught him. In a few wordshe told him what had happened, that he didn't know how long he might beaway and that if news came from Jim before his return to let him know. Crowder promised. 

CHAPTER XXV

WHAT JIM SAW

The next morning Crowder sent a letter to Fong advising him of Mark'sdeparture. Should Jim get back from Sacramento within the next few dayshe was to communicate with Crowder at the _Despatch_ office. The youngman had no expectation of early news, but he was going to run no riskswith what promised to be a sensation. His journalist's instincts werearoused, and he was resolved to keep for his own paper and his own_kudos_ the most picturesque story that had ever come his way. He wentabout his work, restless and impatient, seeing the story on the_Despatch's_ front page and himself made the star reporter of the staff. 

He had not long to wait. On Monday morning he was called from the cityroom to the telephone. Through the transmitter came the soft and evenvoice of Jim; he had returned from Sacramento the night before, and if itwas convenient for Mr. Crowder could see him that afternoon at two inPortsmouth Square. Mr. Crowder would make it convenient, and Jim'sgood-by hummed gently along the wire. 

The small plaza--a bit of the multicolored East embedded in the new, drabWest--was a place where Orient and Occident touched hands. There Chinesemothers sat on the benches watching their children playing at their feet, and Chinese fathers carried babies, little bunched-up, fat things withround faces and glistening onyx eyes. Sons of the Orient, bent onbusiness, passed along the paths, exchanging greetings in a sing-song ofnasal voices, cues braided with rose-colored silk swinging to theirknees. Above the vivid green of the grass and the dark flat branches ofcypress trees, the back of Chinatown rose, alien and exotic: railingstouched with gold and red, lanterns, round and crimson or oblong withpale, skin-like coverings, on the window ledges blue and white bowlsupholding sheaves of lilies, the rich emblazonry of signs, the thickgilded arabesques of a restaurant's screened balconies. 

Crowder found his man standing by the pedestal on which the good ship_Bonaventure_ spreads its shining sails before the winds of romance. Aquiet hail and they were strolling side by side to a bench sheltered by agrowth of laurel. 

Mayer had appeared at the Whatcheer House the day before at noon. Jim, crossing the back of the office, had seen him enter, and loitering heardhim tell the clerk that he would give up his room that afternoon as hisbase had shifted to Oregon. Then he had gone upstairs, and Jim hadfollowed him and seen him go into No. 19, the last door at the end of thehall on the left-hand side. 

The hall was empty and very quiet. It was the lunch hour, a time at whichthe place was deserted. Arming himself with a duster Jim had stolen downthe passage to No. 19. Standing by the door he could hear Mayer walkingabout inside, and then a sound as if he was moving the furniture. Withthe duster held ready for use Jim had looked through the keyhole and seenMayer with a chisel in his hand, the bed behind him drawn out from thewall to the middle of the room. 

Emboldened by the hall's silence, Jim had continued to watch. He sawMayer go to the corner where the bed had stood, lift the carpet and theboards below it and take from beneath them two canvas sacks. From thesehe shook a stream of gold coins--more than a thousand dollars, maybe two. He let them lie there while he put back the sacks, replaced the boardsand carpet and pushed the bed into its corner. Then he gathered up themoney, rolling some of it in a piece of linen, which he packed in hissuitcase, and putting the rest in a money belt about his waist. Afterthat he took up his hat and Jim slipped away to a broom closet at theupper end of the hall. 

From here the Chinaman saw his quarry come out of the room and go downthe stairs. At the desk Mayer stopped, told the clerk he had vacatedNo. 19, but would wait in the office for a while as his train was notdue to leave till the afternoon. From the stairhead Jim watched himtake a seat by the window, and, the suitcase at his feet, pick up apaper and begin to read. 

It was a rule of the Whatcheer House that a vacated room was subjected toa "thorough cleaning. " Translated this meant a run over the floor with acarpet sweeper and a change of sheets. The door of No. 19 had been leftunlocked, and while Mayer sat in the office conning the paper, Jim withthe necessary rags and brooms was putting No. 19 in shape for the nexttenant. An inside bolt on the door made him secure against interruption, and the bed drawn to the middle of the floor was part of the traditionalrite. Carpet and boards came up easily; his cache empty Mayer had nottroubled to renail them. In the space between the rafters and theflooring Jim had found no more money, only a bunch of canvas sacks, and adirty newspaper. With the Chinaman's meticulous carefulness he hadbrought these back to his employers; in proof of which he laid a small, neatly tied package on Crowder's knee. For the rest his work was done. He had paid the Whatcheer room boy and seen him reinstated, had followedMayer to the depot, viewed his transformation there, and ridden with himon the night train back to San Francisco. 

To Crowder's commending words he murmured a smiling deprecation. Whatconcerned him most was his "prize money, " which was promised on Mark'sreturn. Then, nodding sagely to the young man's cautioning of secrecy, herose, and uninterested, imperturbably enigmatic and bland, passed out ofsight around the laurels. 

Crowder, on the bench, slipped down to a comfortable angle and thought. There was no doubt now--but what the devil did it mean? A concealedhoard hidden under the floor of a men's lodging house--that could onlybe stolen money. Where had he stolen it from? Was he some kind ofgentleman burglar, such as plays and novels had been built around? Itwas a plausible explanation. He looked the part so well; lots ofswagger and side, and the whole thing a trifle overdone. _What_ astory! Crowder licked his lips over it, seeing it splashed across thefront page. At that moment the parcel Jim had given him slipped off hisknee to the ground. 

He had forgotten it, and a little shamefaced--for your true detectivestudies the details before formulating his theory--picked it up andopened it. Inside a newspaper, its outer sheets mud-stained and torn, were six small bags of white canvas, marked with a stenciled "W. F. &Co. " Crowder sat erect and brushed back his pendent lock of hair. He knewwhat the stenciled letters stood for as well as he knew his own initials. Then he spread out the paper. It was the _Sacramento Courier_ of August25. From the top of a column the heading of his own San Francisco letterfaced him, the bottom part torn away. But that did not interest him. Itwas the date that held his eye--August 25--that was last summer--August25, Wells Fargo--he muttered it over, staring at the paper, his glanceglassily fixed in the intensity of his mental endeavor. 

Round date and name his memory circled, drawing toward a focus, curvingcloser and closer, coming nearer in decreasing spirals, finally fallingon it. With the pounce a broken sentence fell from his lips: "The tules!Knapp and Garland!"

For the first moment of startled realization he was so surprised that hecould not see how Mayer was implicated. Then his mind leaped the gap fromthe holdup in August to that picturesque narrative still fresh in thepublic mind--Knapp's story of the robbed cache. The recollection camewith an impact that held him breathless; incidents, details, dates, marshaling themselves in a corroborating sequence. When he saw it clear, unrolled before his mental vision in a series of events, neatly fitting, accurately dovetailed, he sat up looking stupidly about him like a personemerging from sleep. 

He had work to do at the office, but on the way there stopped at theExpress Company for a word with Robinson, one of the clerks, whom heknew. He wanted information of any losses by theft or accident sustainedby the company since the middle of the preceding August. Robinsonpromised to look up the subject and let him know before the closing hour. At six Crowder was summoned to one of the telephone booths in the cityroom. Robinson had inquired: during the time specified Wells Fargo andCompany had suffered but one loss. This was on the twenty-sixth ofAugust, when Knapp and Garland had held up the Rocky Bar stage and takenthousand dollars in coin consigned to the Greenhide Mine at Antelope. 

It was Crowder's habit to dine at Philip's Rôtisserie at half past six. They liked him at Philip's. Madame at her desk, fat and gray-haired, witha bunch of pink roses at one elbow and a sleeping cat at the other, always had time for a chat with "Monsieur Crowdare. " Even Philip himself, in his chef's cap and apron, would emerge from the kitchen and conferwith the favored guest. But tonight "Monsieur Crowdare" had no words foranyone. He did no more than nod to Madame, and Gaston, the waiter, afterward told her he had hardly looked at the menu--just said bringanything, he didn't care what. Madame was quite worried over it, hoped"_le cher garçon_" wasn't sick, and comforted herself by thinking hemight be in love. 

Never before in his cheery existence had Crowder been so excited. Overhis unsavored dinner he studied the situation, planning his course. Hewas resolved on one point--to keep the rights of discovery for the_Despatch_. He could manage this, making it a condition when he laid hisknowledge before the Express Company people. That would be his next move, and he ought to do it soon; Mayer's withdrawal of the money mightindicate an intention of disappearing. He would go to Wells Fargo andtell them what he had found out, asking in return that the results oftheir investigation should be given to him for first publication in the_Despatch_. 

It was a pity Mark wasn't there--he didn't like acting without Mark. Butmatters were moving too quickly now to take any chances. There was notelephone at the ranch, or he could have called up long-distance, and atelegram, to be intelligible, would have to be too explicit. He wouldwrite to Mark tomorrow, or perhaps the next day--after he had seen theExpress people. 

To be secret as the grave was the charge Crowder laid upon himself, buthe longed to let loose some of the ferment that seethed within him, andin his longing remembered the one person to whom he dared go--Pancha. Hers were the legitimate ears to receive the racy tale. She was not onlyto be trusted--a pal as reliable as a man--but it would cure her of herinfatuation, effectually crush out the passion that had devastated her. 

CHAPTER XXVI

PANCHA WRITES A LETTER

Pancha had been much alone. Crowder had seen her several times, thedoctor had come, the chambermaid, one or two of her confreres from thetheater. But there had been long, dreary hours when she had lainmotionless, looking at the walls and thinking of her wrongs. She hadgone over and over the old ground, trodden the weary round like asquirrel in a cage, asked herself the same questions and searched, tormented, for their answers. As the days passed the weight of hergrievance grew, and her sick soul yearned to hit back at the man who hadso wantonly wounded her. 

Gradually, from the turmoil an idea of retaliation was churned intobeing. It did not reach the point of action till Monday evening. Then itrose before her imperious, a vengeance, subtle and if not complete, atleast as satisfying as anything could be to her sore heart. It was thatexpression of futile anger and poisoned musings, an anonymous letter. Shewrote it on the pink note paper which she had bought to write to Mayeron. It ran as follows:

Dear Lady:

This letter is to warn you. It comes from a person friendly to you andwho wants to put you wise to something you ought to know. It's about BoyéMayer, him that goes to your house and is after your sister. Maybe youdon't know that, but _I_ do--it's truth what I'm telling you every word. He's no good. Not the kind to go round with your kind. It's your sister'smoney he wants. If she had none he'd not trouble to meet her in theplaza opposite the Greek Church. Watch out for him--don't let her go withhim. Don't let her marry him or you'll curse the day. I know him well andI know he's bad right through. 

Wishing you well, FROM A FRIEND. 

She had written the letter to Lorry as the elder sister, whose name shehad seen in the papers and whom Crowder had described as the intelligentone with brains and character. Her woman's instinct told her that hercharges might have no weight with the younger girl, under the spell ofthose cajoleries and blandishments whose power she knew so well. With theletter in her hand she crept out to the stairhead and called to the clerkin the office below. Gushing had not come on duty yet, and it was the dayman who answered her summons. She asked him to post the letter thatnight, and he promised to do so. The lives of the group of which thisstory tells were drawing in to a point of fusion. In the centripetalmovement this insignificant incident had its importance. The man forgothis promise, and it was not till the next day at lunch that he thought ofthe letter, posting it on his way back to the hotel. 

In her room again, Pancha dropped on the sofa, and lay still. Theexertion had taxed her strength and she felt sick and tremulous. But shethought of what she had done with a grim relish, savored like a burningmorsel on her tongue, the bitter-sweet of revenge. 

Here an hour later Crowder found her. She was glad to see him, and toldhim she was better, but the doctor would not let her get up yet. 

"And even if he would, " she said, "I don't want to. I'm that weak, Charlie, you can't think. It's as if the thing that made me alive wasgone, and I was just the same as dead. "

Crowder thought he understood his friend Pancha even as he did his friendMark. That she could have complexities and reservations beyond his simpleken had never occurred to him. What he saw on the surface was what shewas, and being so, the news he was bringing would be as a tonic to herbroken spirit. 

"You'll not stay that way long, Panchita, " he said. "You'll be on the jobsoon now. And what I've come to tell you will help on the good work. I'vegot a story for you that'll straighten out all the creases and bring youup on your feet better than a steam derrick would. "

"What is it?" She did not seem especially interested, her glancelistless, her hand lying languid where he had dropped it. 

"It's about Mayer. "

He was rewarded by seeing her shift her head on the pillow that she mightcommand him with a vivid, bird-bright eye. 

"What about him?"

"Every thing, my dear. We've got him coming and going. We've got him deadto rights. He's a rogue and a thief. "

With her hands spread flat on either side of her she raised herself to asitting posture. Her face, framed in its bush of hair, had a look ofstrained, almost wild, inquiry. 

"Thief!" she exclaimed. 

"Yes. It's a honeycooler of a story. Burst out all of a sudden like anight blooming cereus. But before I say a word you've got to promise oneverything you hold sacred that you won't breathe a word of it. "

"I promise. "

"It's only for a little while. It'll be public property in a day ortwo--Thursday or Friday maybe. "

"I'm on. How is he a thief?"

Crowder told her. The story was clear in his head by this time, and hetold it well, with the journalist's sense of its drama. As he spoke shedrew up her knees and clasping her hands round them sat rigid, now andthen as she met his eyes, raised to hers to see if she had caught apoint, nodding and breathing a low, "I see--Go on. "

When he had finished he looked at her with challenging triumph. 

"Well--isn't it all I said it was?"

Already she showed the effect of it. There was color in her face, a duskyred on the high cheek bones. 

"Yes--more. I didn't think--" She stopped and swallowed, herthroat dry. 

"Did you have the least idea, did he ever say a word to suggest he hadanything as juicy as that in the background?"

"No. I can't remember all in a minute. But he never said much abouthimself; he was always asking about me. " She paused, fixedlystaring; then her glance, razor-sharp, swerved to the young man. "Will he go to jail?"

"You bet he will. I'm not sure on just what count, but they'll find onethat'll fit his case. He's as much a thief as either Knapp or Garland. Heknew it wasn't Captain Kidd's treasure; he saw the papers. He can't playthe baby act about being ignorant. The way he hid his loot proves that. "

"Yes, " she murmured. "He's a thief all right. He's bad every way. "

"That's what I wanted you to see. That's why I told you. You can't go oncaring now. "

"No. " Her voice was very low. "It puts the lid on that. "

"You can thank God on your bended knees he threw you down. "

"Oh, yes, " she rocked her head slightly from side to side with an air ofmorose defiance, "I _can_. "

"_Do_ you?" said the young man, leaning closer and looking into her face. 

He was satisfied by what he saw. For a moment the old pride flamed up, aspark in the black glance, a haughty straightening of the neck. 

"A common thief like him for my lover? Say, you know me, Charlie. I'dhave killed myself, or maybe I'd have killed him. "

Crowder had what he would have called "a hunch" that this might be true. From his heart he exclaimed:

"Gee, I'm glad it's turned out the way it has!"

"So am I. Only I'm sorry for one thing. It's _you_ that have caught him, not _me_. "

Crowder laughed. 

"You Indian!" he said. "You red, revengeful devil!"

"Oh, I'm _that_!" she answered, with biting emphasis. "When I get a blowI want to give one. I don't turn the other cheek; I strike back--with aknife if I have one handy. "

"Well, don't you bother about knives now. The hitting's going to be donefor you. All you have to do is to sit still, like a perfect lady, andsay nothing. "

"Um. " She paused, mused an instant, and then said: "You're sure you can'tbe mistaken?"

"Positive. Funny, isn't it? It was the paper that gave me the lead. Sortof poetic justice his being landed by that--the paper that had thearticle about you in it. "

She looked at him, struck with a sudden idea:

"Perhaps it was that article that made him come to see me in thebeginning. "

Crowder smiled. 

"I guess he wasn't bothering about articles just then. He'd used it towrap the money in. It was all muddy and ragged, the lower half of theletter gone--the piece about you--got torn out by accident I guess. As Isee it he happened to have the paper and when he got the sacks out of theground, put some of 'em in it. Then when he was in the Whatcheer House hestuffed it in the hole under the floor. It was the handiest way to getrid of it. "

Soon after that Crowder left, feeling that he had done a good work. Thenews had had the effect he had hoped it would. She was a different girl. The last glimpse of her, sitting in that same attitude with her handsclasped round her knees, showed her revitalized, alive once more, withsomething of the old brown and red vividness in her face. 

When he had gone she remembered her letter. It was of no use now. Shewould have liked to recall it, but it was too late; the clock on thetable marked eleven. Through the fitful sleep of her uneasy night it cameback, invested by the magnifying power of dreams with a fantasticmalignity; in waking moments showing as a bit of spite, dwindled tonothing before the forces gathering for Mayer's destruction. 

CHAPTER XXVII

BAD NEWS

Old Man Haley's shack stood back from a branch road that wound down fromAntelope across the foothills to Pine Flat. Commercial travelers, staging it from camp to camp, could see his roof over the trees, andsometimes the driver would point to it with his whip and tell how theold man--a survival of the early days--lived there alone cultivating hisvegetable patch. In the last four or five years people said he had gone"nutty, " had taken to wandering down the stream beds with his pickax andpan, but he was a harmless old body and seemed able to get along. Hesaid he had a son somewhere who sent him money now and again, and healways had enough to keep himself in groceries and tobacco, which hebought at the general store in Pine Flat. Maybe you'd see him strayingalong, sort o' kind and simple, with his pick over his shoulder, smilin'up at the folks in the stage. 

On that Sunday when Mayer had made his last trip to Sacramento Old ManHaley had risen with the sun. While the rest of the world was slumberingon its pillow he was out among his vegetables, hoe in hand. 

It was one of those mornings that deck with a splendor of blue and goldthe foothill spring. The air was balmy, the sky a fleckless vault, wherebird shapes floated on aerial currents or sped in jubilant flight. Fromthe chaparral came the scents of sun-warmed foliage, the pungent odor ofbay, the aromatic breath of pine, and the sweet, frail perfume of thechaparral flower. This flecked the hillside with its powdery blossom, awhite blur among the glittering enamel of madrona leaves. 

Old Man Haley, an ancient figure in his rusty overalls, paused in hislabor to survey the sea of green from which he had wrested his garden. His eye traveled slowly, for he loved it, and had grown to regard it ashis own. Leaning on his hoe he looked upward over its tufted density andsuddenly his glance lost its complacent vagueness and became sharp andfixed. Through the close-packed vegetation a zigzag movement descended asif a fissure of earth disturbance was stirring along the roots. After amoment's scrutiny he turned and sent a look, singularly alert, over theshack and the road beyond. Then, pursing his lips, he emitted a whistledbar of bird notes. 

The commotion in the chaparral stopped, and from it rose a wild figure. It looked more ape than man, hairy, bearded to the cheekbones, sunken-eyed and staggering. It started forward at a run, branchescrashing under its blundering feet, and as it came it sent up a hoarsecry for food. 

Some years before Old Man Haley had built a woodshed behind the cabin. When he bought the planks he had told "the boys" in Pine Flat that he wasgetting too old to forage for his wood in winter, and was going to cut itin summer, and have it handy when the rains came. He had built the shedwell and lined it with tar paper. Adventurous youngsters, going past oneday, had peeped in and seen a blanket spread over the stacked logs as ifthe old man might have been sleeping there; which, being reported, wasset down to his craziness. 

Here Garland now hid, ate like a famished wolf, and slept. Then whennight came, and all wayfarers were safe indoors, stole to the shack, and with only the red eye of the stove to light their conference, exchanged the news with his confederate. Hunger had driven him back tothe settlements; four days before his last cartridge had been spent, andhe had lived since then on berries and roots. Old Man Haley, squattingin the rocking-chair made from a barrel, whispered cheeringintelligence: they'd about given up the hunt, thought he had died in thechaparral. Someone had seen birds circling round a spot off toward thehills behind Angels. 

The next day when Garland told his intention of moving on to SanFrancisco, the old man was uneasy. He was the only associate of thebandit who knew of the daughter there, and he urged patience and caution. He was even averse to taking a letter to her when he went into Pine Flatfor supplies. The post office was the resort of loungers. If they saw OldMan Haley coming in to mail a letter, they'd get curious; you couldn'ttell but what they might wrastle with him and grab the letter. In a dayor two maybe he could get into Mormons Landing, where he wasn't so wellknown, and mail it there. To placate Garland he promised him a paper; theman at the store would give him one. 

When he came back in the rosy end of the evening he was exultant. Awoman, hearing him ask the storekeeper for a paper, had told him to stopat her house and she would give him a roll of them. There they were, abig bundle, and not local ones, but the _San Francisco Despatch _almostto date. He left Garland in the woodshed, reading by the light that fellin through the open door, and went to the shack to cook supper. 

Presently a reek of blue smoke was issuing from the crook of pipe abovethe roof, and wood was crackling in the stove. Old Man Haley, mindful ofhis guest's dignities and claims upon himself, set about thepreparation of a goodly meal, part drawn from his own garden, part fromthe packages he had carried back from Pine Flat. He was engrossed in it, when, through the sizzling of frying grease, he heard the sound offootsteps and the doorway was darkened by Garland's bulk. In his hand heheld a paper, and even the age-dimmed eyes of the old man could see thepallid agitation of his face. 

"My daughter!" he cried, shaking the paper at Haley. "She's sick inFrancisco--I seen it here! I got to go!"

There was no arguing with him, and Old Man Haley knew it. He helped tothe full extent of his capacity, set food before the man, and urged himto eat, dissuaded him from a move till after nightfall, and provided himwith money taken from a hiding-place behind the stove. 

Then together they worked out his route to the coast. The first stagewould be from there to the Dormer Ranch where he had friends. They'dvictual him and give him clothes, for even Garland, reckless withanxiety, did not dare show himself in the open as he now was, a figure tocatch the attention of the most unsuspicious. He would have to keep tothe woods and the trails till he got to Dormer's, and it would be a longhike--all that night and part of the next day. They would give him amount and he could strike across country and tap the railroad at somepoint below Sacramento, making San Francisco that night. 

The dark had settled, clearly deep, when he left. There were stars in thesky, only a few, very large and far apart, and by their light he couldsee the road between the black embankment of shrubs. It was extremelystill as he stole down from the shack, Old Man Haley watching from thedoorway. It continued very still as he struck into his stride, no soundcoming from the detailless darkness. Its quiet suggested that same tenseexpectancy, that breathless waiting, he had noticed under the big trees. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHRYSTIE SEES THE DAWN

No shadow of impending disaster fell across Mayer's path. On the Mondaymorning he rose feeling more confident, lighter in heart, than he haddone since he met Burrage. It had been a relief to put an end to theSacramento business; Chrystie had been amenable to his suggestion; theweather was fine; his affairs were moving smoothly to their climax. As hedressed he expanded his chest with calisthenic exercises and even warbleda little French song. 

He was out by ten--an early hour for him--and he fared along the streetpleasantly aware of the exhilarating sunshine, the blueness of the bay, the tang of salty freshness in the air. The hours till lunch were to bespent in completing the arrangements for the flight. At the railwayoffice he bought the two passage tickets to Reno, his own section andChrystie's stateroom, and even the amount of money he had to disburse didnot diminish his sense of a prospering good fortune. 

From there he went to the office of the man who owed him the gamblingdebt and encountered a check. The gentleman had gone to the country onFriday and would not be back till Wednesday morning at ten. A politelypositive clerk assured him no letter or message had been left for Mr. Mayer, and a telegram received that morning had shown his employer to befar afield on the Macleod River. 

Mayer left the office with a set, yellowish face. The disappointmentwould have irritated him at any time; now coming unexpected on his easedassurance it enraged him. For an hour he paced the streets trying todecide what to do. Of course he could go and leave the money, write aletter to have it sent after him. But he doubted whether his creditorwould do it, and he needed every cent he could get. His plan of conquestof Chrystie included a luxurious background, a wealth of costly detail. He did not see himself winning her to complete subjugation without aplentiful spending fund. He had told her they would go North from Renoand travel eastward by the Canadian Pacific, stopping at points ofinterest along the road. He imagined his courtship progressing ingrandiose suites of rooms wherein were served delicate meals, hisgenerous largesse to obsequious hirelings adding to her dazzled approval. He had to have that money; he couldn't go without it; he had set it asideto deck with fitting ceremonial the conquering bridal tour. 

He stopped at a telegraph office and wrote her a note telling her to meethim that afternoon at three in the old place opposite the Greek Church. This he sent by messenger and then he pondered a rearrangement of hisplans. He would only have to shift their departure on a few hours--saytill Wednesday noon. He had heard at the railway office there was a slowlocal for Reno at midday. They could take this, and though it was a daytrain there would be little chance of their being noticed, as thedenizens of Chrystie's world and his own always traveled by the fasterOverland Flyer. 

As he saw her approaching across the plaza his uneasy eye discerned fromafar the fact that she was perturbed. Her face was anxious, her longswinging step even more rapid than usual. And, "Oh, Boyé!" she graspedas they met and their hands clasped. "Has anything happened?"

It was not a propitious frame of mind, and he drew one of her handsthrough his arm, pressing the fingers against his side as they walkedtoward the familiar bench. There gently, very gently, he acquainted herwith the version of the situation he had rehearsed: a businessmatter--she wouldn't understand--but something of a good deal ofimportance had unfortunately been postponed from that afternoon tillWednesday morning. It was extremely annoying--in fact, maddening, but hedidn't see how it was to be avoided. She looked horrified. 

"Then what are we to do--put it off?"

"Yes, until Wednesday at noon. There's a slow train we can get. There'sno use waiting till evening. "

She turned on him aghast. 

"But the Barlows? What am I to do about them? I've told Lorry I was goingthere on Tuesday. "

"Darling girl, that's very simple. You've had a letter to say they don'twant you till Wednesday. "

"But, Boyé, " she sat erect, staring distressfully at him, "I've toldLorry the party was on Tuesday night. That's what they've asked me for. Now how can I say they don't want me?"

He bit his lip to keep down his anger. Why had he allowed her to do_anything_--why hadn't he written it all down in words of one syllable?

"We'll have to think of some reason for a change in their plans. Whycouldn't they have postponed the party?"

"Even if they did they wouldn't postpone _me_. I go there often, they'reold friends, it doesn't matter when I come. "

Her voice had a quavering note, new to him, and extremely alarming. 

"Dearest, don't get worked up over it, " he said tenderly. 

"Worked up!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't any girl be worked up? It's _awful_for a person in my position to elope. It's all very well for you who justgo and come as you please, but for me--I believe if I was in prison Icould get out easier. "

He caught her hand and pressed it between his own. 

"Of course, it's hard for you. No one knows that better than I, and thatyou should do it makes me love you more--if that's possible. " He raisedthe hand to his lips, kissed it softly and dropped it. "I know how youcan manage--it's as easy as possible. Say you have a headache, asplitting headache, and can't take the railway trip, but rather thandisappoint them you'll go down the next day. "

She drew her hand out of his, and said in a stubborn voice:

"No. I don't want to. "

"Why? Now why, darling? What's wrong about that?"

"I won't tell any more lies to Lorry. "

He looked at her, and saw her flushed, mutinous, tears standing in hereyes. 

"But, dearest--"

She cut him off, her voice suddenly breaking:

"I can't do it. I didn't know it was going to be so dreadful. But I can'tlook at Lorry and tell her any more lies. I _wont_. It makes me sick. It's asking too much, Boyé. There's something hateful about it. "

Her underlip quivered, drew in like a child's. With a shaking hand shebegan fumbling about her belt for her handkerchief. 

"Sometimes I feel as if I was doing wrong, " she faltered. "I love you, I've told you so--but--but--Lorry's not like anybody else--anyway to me. And to keep on telling her what isn't true makes me feel--like--like--a_yellow dog!"_

The last words came on a breaking sob, and the handkerchief went up toher face. Mayer was frightened. A quick glance round the plaza showed himno one was in sight, and he threw him arm about her and drew the weepinghead down to his shoulder. Though the green paradise plume was in the wayand his fear of passersby acute, he was still sufficiently master ofhimself to soothe with words of beguiling sweetness. 

While he did it, his free hand holding the paradise plume out of hisface, his eye nervously ranging the prospect, his mind ran over ways tomeet the difficulty. By the time Chrystie had conquered her tears, and, with a creaking of tight-drawn silks, was sitting upright again, he hadhit on a solution and was ready to broach it. 

"Well, then, we'll rule out any more lies as you call them. You won'thave to say another word to Lorry. We can go on just as we'd planned. "

"How?" she asked, in a stopped-up voice, dabbing at her eyes with thehandkerchief. 

"You can leave on Tuesday afternoon at the same time and go to a hotel. "

"A hotel!" She stopped dabbing, extremely surprised, as if he hadsuggested going to something she had never heard of before. 

"Yes, not one of the big ones; a quiet place where you're not liable torun into anyone who may recognize you. I know of the very thing, notlong opened, in the Mission. You leave for the train as you intended, butinstead of going to the ferry, you go there. I'll take the rooms for you. All you'll have to do will be to write your name in the book--say, MissBrown--and go up to your apartment. Order your dinner up there and yourbreakfast the next morning. I'll have a cab sent round for you athalf-past eleven that'll take you straight to the ferry, and I'll sendyour tickets and trunk check to your rooms before that. There'll benothing for you to do but cross on the boat and go into your stateroom onthe train. "

This was all very smooth and clear. It was proof of Chrystie'sunpractical trend of thought that her comment was an uneasy, "A hotel in the Mission?"

"Yes, a new place, very quiet and decent. I heard of it from some peoplewho are living there. I'll not come to see you, but I'll phone over inthe evening and find out how you're getting on. And the next morning I'llbe on the platform at Oakland, watching out for you. "

"But you won't speak to me?"

"Not then. In the train we might meet--just accidentally run into oneanother. And you'll say, 'Why, there's Mr. Mayer! How odd. How d'ye do, Mr. Mayer. '" He bowed with a mincing imitation of Chrystie's best societymanner. "'I didn't expect to see _you_ here. '"

She laughed delightedly, nestling against his shoulder. 

"Will that be all? Can I say any more?"

"Not much. It will be only a greeting as we pass each other: 'So glad tosee you, Miss Alston. Going up to Reno for a short stay. See you in townsoon again, I hope. ' And then you to your stateroom and me in my section, both of us looking out of the window as if we were bored. "

They both laughed, lovers again. He was as relieved as she was. After allit might turn out the better plan. He could keep his eye on her, watchfor signs of distress or mutiny and be ready with the comforting word. Hehad to take some risk, and it was better to take that of being seen thanthat of leaving her a prey to her own disintegrating musings. Chrystiethought it was a great deal better than the other way. She saw herself inthe train, conscious of him, knowing he was there, and pretending not tocare. She felt uplifted on the wings of romance, heard the air around herstirred by the beating of those rainbow pinions. 

The thrill of it lasted until dinner, then began to die away. Her homeand the familiar surroundings pressed upon her attention like live thingsinsisting on recognition. The trivial talk round the table took on thepoignancy of matters already in the past. The night before Fong, on hisway back from Chinatown, had found a deserted kitten and brought it homeannouncing his intention to adopt it and call it George Washington. Lorryand Aunt Ellen made merry over it, but Chrystie couldn't. The kittenwould grow from youth to maturity, and she not be there to see. It tookits place in her mind as something belonging to a vanished phase, havingthe cherished value of a memory. 

Finally, Lorry noticed her silence, and wanted to know if anything wasthe matter. She was pale and had hardly eaten a bite. Aunt Ellenarraigned the Spring as a malign influence, and suggested quinine. Chrystie snapped at her, and said she wouldn't take quinine if she wasdying. Thus warned away, Lorry and Aunt Ellen left her alone and madeSummer plans together. Lake Tahoe for July and August was taking shape inLorry's mind. July and August! Where would _she_ be? Boyé had saidsomething about Europe, and at the time it had seemed to her the _ultimaThule_ of her dreams. Now it looked as far away as the moon and asinhospitable. 

The inner excitement of the next day carried her over qualms andyearnings--the beating of the rainbow pinions was again in her ears. 

In the morning she went to the bank and drew five hundred dollars. Shemust have some money of her own, and when she reached New York she wouldwant clothes. It was unfortunate that while she was making holes in hertrunk to pack it, Lorry should have come in and seen more than half of itstacked on the bureau. That necessitated more lies, and Chrystie toldthem with desperation. It was to pay people, of course, milliners anddressmakers--she owed a lot, and as she was passing the bank she'd drawnit in a lump. 

Lorry was disapproving--her sister's carelessness about money alwaysshocked her--and offered to take charge of it till Chrystie came back. There had to be another crop of lies, and Chrystie's face was beaded withperspiration, her voice shaking, as she bent over her trunk. She'd lockit in her desk, it would be all right--and please go away and don'tbother--the expressman might be here any minute now. 

She had a hope that Lorry would go out in the afternoon, and she couldget away unobserved, but the faithful sister persisted in staying to seeher off. That was dreadful. Bag in hand, a lace veil--to be loweredlater--pushed back across her hat, she had tried to get the good-by overin the hall, but Lorry had followed her out to the steps. There in therevealing daylight the elder sister's smiles had died away, andscrutinizing the face under the jaunty hat, she had said sharply:

"Is anything the matter, Chrystie? You know, you look quite ill. Are yousure you feel well?"

It brought up a crowding line of memories--Lorry concerned, vigilant, always watching over her with that anxious tenderness. A surge of emotionrose in the girl and she snatched her sister to her, kissed her with asudden passion, then ran. 

"Good-by, good-by, " she called out as she flew down the steps to thewaiting carriage. 

Her eyes were blinded, and she was afraid to look back for fear Lorrymight see the tears. She waved a hand, then crouched in the corner ofthe seat and spied out of the little rear window. She could see Lorry onthe top step watching the carriage, her face grave, her brows low-drawnin a frown. 

The thrill came back when she dismissed the cab at the door of the hotel. As she walked up the entrance hall it was as if she was walking into thefirst chapter of a novel--a novel of which she was the heroine. And asBoyé had said, it was all very easy--she was expected, everything wasready. A bellboy snatched her bag, and the elevator whisked her up to herrooms, suite 38, third floor rear. 

They seemed to her very uninviting; a parlor with crimson plushfurniture, smelling of varnish and opening into a bedroom. The blindswere down, and when the boy had left she went to the window and threw itup, letting light and air into the stuffy, unfriendly place. That wasbetter and she leaned out, breathing in the balmy freshness, catching awhiff from gardens blooming bravely between the crowding walls. 

She stayed there for some time, staring about, to the left where the bayshone blue beyond the roofs, to the right where on the flanks of theMission hills she could see the city's distant outposts, white dottingsof houses, and here and there the gleam of a tin roof touched by the lowsun. The nearby prospect was not attractive--what one might expect in theMission. Only a narrow crevice separated the hotel wall from the nexthouse, whose yard stretched below her, crossed with clothes lines, theplants and shrubs showing a pale green, elongated growth in their effortsto reach the sunlight. Her down-drooped glance ranged over it withdisfavor, and she idly wondered what kind of people lived there. It hadonce been a sort of detached villa; she could trace the remains of walksand flower beds, and the shed in the back had a broken weather vane onthe roof--it must have been a stable. 

She leaned out on her folded arms till the flare of sunset blazed on thewestward windows, then sank through a burning decline into grayness andthe night. The fiery windows grew blank and chains of lamps marked thelines of the streets. Then she turned back to the room, dark behind her, yawning like a cavern. She lighted the lights and sat in a stiff-backedrocking-chair, the hard white radiance beating on her from a cluster ofelectric bulbs close against the ceiling as if they had been shot upthere by an explosion. It was half-past six, but she did not feel at allhungry. She felt--with a smothered exclamation she jumped up, ran to thetelephone and ordered her dinner. 

At eight o'clock Mayer's voice on the phone brought back a slight, faintecho of the thrill. What he said was matter-of-fact and colorless--hehad warned her that it would be--just if she was comfortable andeverything Was all right. She tried to answer it with debonair brevity;show the right spirit, bold and undismayed, of the dauntless woman to thecompanion of her daring. 

Then came the slow undrawing of the night, the noises of the house dyingdown, car bells and auto horns less frequent in the streets below. Thebedroom was at the back of the building, with windows that looked acrossa paved court to the rear walls of houses. There were lights in many ofthem, glimpses of bright interiors, people chatting in friendly groups. The sight brought a stabbing memory of the drawing-room at home, and inthe dark she undressed and slipped into bed. 

But sleep would not come--her mind would not obey her; slipped and slidaway from her direction like an animal racing for its goal. At home atthis hour the door between her room and Lorry's would be open and theywould be calling back and forth to one another as they made ready forbed. They had done that as far back as she could remember, back to thetime when there had been a nurse in her room and Lorry had worn her hairin braids. She lay still, almost breathless, her eyes fixed on the yellowoblong of the transom, recalling Lorry in those days, in stiff whiteskirts and a wide silk sash, very grave, a little woman even then. Shegroaned and turned over in the bed, digging her head into the pillow andclosing her eyes. 

After an hour or two she rose and put on her wrapper and slippers. Theturmoil within her was so intense that she could not keep still, andprowled, a tall, swathed form, from one room to the other. It seemed thenthat there never had been a thrill--nothing but this repulsion, thisrepudiation, nothing but a desire to be back where she belonged. Shefought it, less for love of Mayer than for shame at her own backsliding. She saw herself a coward, lacking the courage to take her life boldly, renouncing the man who had her promise. That held her closer to herresolve than any other consideration; her troth was plighted. Could shenow--the wedding ring almost on her finger--turn and run crying for homelike a child frightened of the dark?

But she didn't want to, she didn't want to! She seemed to see Mayer witha new clearness; glimpsed, to her own dread, his compelling power. He washer master, someone she feared, someone who could make her at one momentfeel proud and glad, and at another small and trivial and apologetic. Amajestic figure, a woman built on the grand plan, poor Chrystie pacedthrough the silent rooms, weeping like a lost baby. 

When the dawn began to grow pale she went to the bedroom window andpulled up the blinds. Like a place of dreams the city slowly grew intosolidity through the spectral light. It was as gray as her mood, allcolor subdued, walls and roofs and chimneys an even monochrome, abovethem in the sky an increasing, thin, white luster. The air stole in chillas the prospect and from the street beyond rose the sound of a footfall, enormously distinct, echoing prodigiously, as if it was the only footfallleft in the world and the sound of the others--refused individualexistence--had concentrated in that one to give it volume. 

Chrystie drew up a chair and sat down. There with swollen eyes and leadenheart she waited for the day. 

CHAPTER XXIX

LORRY SEES THE DAWN

Chrystie's manner on her departure had disturbed Lorry. As she dressedfor the opera that night she pondered on it, and back from it to thechange she had noticed in the girl of late. She hadn't been like the old, easy-going Chrystie; her indolent evenness of mood had given place to amercurial flightiness, her gay good-humor been broken by flashes oftemper and morose silences. 

Rustling into her new white dress Lorry reproached herself. She shouldhave paid more attention to it. If Chrystie wasn't well or something wastroubling her she should have found out what it was. She had beennegligent, engrossed in her own affairs--thinking of a man, dreaming likea lovesick girl. That admission made her blush, and seeing her face inthe mirror, the cheeks pink-tinted, the eyes darkly glowing, she couldnot refrain from looking at it. She was not so bad, dressed up that waywith a diamond spray in her hair, and her shoulders white above thecrystal trimming of her bodice. And so--just for a moment--she againforgot Chrystie, wondering, as she eyed the comely reflection, if Markwould be at the opera. 

But when she was finished and had called in Aunt Ellen to look her over, the discomforting sense of duties shirked came back. As she slowly turnedunder Aunt Ellen's inspecting gaze and drooped her shoulders for the bluevelvet cloak that the old lady held out, her thoughts were full ofself-accusal. On the stairway they took the form of a solemn vow topledge herself anew to the accustomed watchful care. In the cab theycrystallized into a definite resolution: as soon as Chrystie came backfrom the Barlows' she would have an old-time, intimate talk with her andfind out if anything really was the matter with the child. 

At the opera it was so exciting and so wonderful that everything else waswiped out of her mind. In the front of the box she sat--its soleornament--against a background of Mrs. Kirkham's contemporaries, witheredand sere in contrast with her lily-pure freshness. In the entr'actes thehostess recalled the opera house in its heyday when the Bonanza Kingsoccupied their boxes with the Bonanza Queens beside them, when everyonewas rich, and all the women wore diamonds. The old ladies cackled overtheir memories, their heads together, forgetful of "Minnie's girl, " whoswept the house with her lorgnon searching for a familiar face. 

Mrs. Kirkham was going to make a night of it, and afterward took herparty to Zinkand's for supper. Here, too, it was very exciting, too muchclaiming one's attention for private worries to intrude. The opera crowdcame thronging in, women in beautiful clothes, men one's father hadknown, youths who had come to one's house. Some of the ladies who hadbeen Minnie Alston's friends stopped to have a word with Lorry and thenswept on making murmurous comment to their escorts--the Alston girls werecoming out of their shells, beginning at last to take their places; itwas a pity they went about with fossils of the Stone Age like Mrs. Kirkham, but they had a queer, old-fashioned streak in them--ah, there'sa vacant table!

It was past midnight when Mrs. Kirkham dropped Lorry at her door androlled off with the rest of her cargo. The joy of the evening was stillwith the girl as she entered the hall. She stood there for a moment, pulling off her gloves and looking about with the prudent eye of aproprietor. In its roving her glance fell on a letter in the card tray. It was addressed to her and had evidently come after she had left. Standing under the single gas jet that was all Fong's thrifty spiritwould permit, she opened it. 

Anonymous and written in an unknown hand it struck upon her receptivemood with a staggering shock. 

It came, a bolt from the blue, but a bolt that fell precise on a spotready to accept it. It was like a sign following her troubledpremonitions, an answer to her anxious queries. If its author had knownjust how Miss Alston's thoughts had been engaged, she could not haveaimed her missile better or timed it more accurately. 

During the first moment she saw nothing but the central fact--theconcealed love affair of which the writer thought she was cognizant. Hermind accepted that instantaneously, corroborating memories coming quickto her call. They flashed across her mental vision, vivid and detachedlike slides in a magic lantern--glimpses of Chrystie in her unfamiliarbrooding and her flushed elation, and the walks, the long walks, fromwhich she returned withdrawn and curiously silent--the silence ofenraptured retrospect. 

Then quick, leaping upon her, came the recollection of Chrystie'sdeparture that afternoon--the clinging embrace, the rush down the steps, the absence of her face at the carriage window. Lorry gave a moan and herhands rose, clutched against her heart. It was proof of how her lonelylife had molded her that in this moment of piercing alarm, she thought ofno help, of no outside assistance to which she could appeal. She hadalways been the leader, acted on her own initiative, and the will to doso now held her taut, sending her mind forces out, clutching and gropingfor her course. It came in a low-breathed whisper of, "The Barlows, " andshe ran to the telephone, an old-fashioned wall instrument behind thestairs. As she flew toward it another magic lantern picture flashed intobeing--Chrystie boring down into her trunk and the pile of money on thebureau. That forced a sound out of her--a sharp, groaned note--as ifexpelled from her body by the impact of a blow. 

She tried to give the Barlows' number clearly and quietly and found hervoice broken by gasping breaths. There was a period of agonized waiting, then a drowsy "central" saying she couldn't raise the number, and Lorrytrying to be calm, trying to be reasonable--it _must_ be raised, it wasimportant, they were asleep that was all. _Ring_--_ring_--ring tillsomeone answers. 

It seemed hours before Roy Barlow's voice, sleepy and cross, camegrowling along the wire:

"What the devil's the matter? Who is it?"

Then her answer and her question: Was Chrystie there?

That smoothed out the crossness and woke him up. He becamesuddenly alert:

"Chrystie? Here--with us?"

"Yes--staying over till Friday. Went down this afternoon. "

"No. _She's _not here. What makes you think she is?"

She did not know what to say; the instinct to protect her sister was partof her being, strong in a moral menace as a physical. She fumbled out anexplanation--she'd been out of town and in her absence Chrystie hadgone to the country without leaving word where. It was all right ofcourse, she was a fool to bother about it, but she couldn't rest till sheknew where the girl had gone. It was probably either to the Spencers orthe Joneses; they'd been teasing her to visit them all winter. Roy, nowwide-awake, showed a tendency to ask questions, but she cut him off, swamped his curiosity in apologies and good-bys and hung up the receiver. 

She was almost certain now, and again she stood pressing down herterrors, urging her faculties to intelligent action. She did not let themslip from her guidance; held them close as dogs to the trail. A moment ofrigid immobility and she had whirled back to the telephone and called upa near-by livery stable. This answered promptly and she ordered a cabsent round at once. 

While she waited she tried to keep steady and think clearly. Prominentin her mind was the necessity not to move rashly, not to do anythingthat would react on Chrystie. There might yet be a mistake--a blessed, unforseen mistake. She clung to the idea as those about a deathbedcling to the hope that a miracle may supervene and save their lovedone. There _was_ a possibility that Chrystie had gone on somemysterious adventure of her own, was playing a trick, was doinganything but eloping with a man that no one had ever thought she caredfor. The only way to find out whether Mayer had any part in herdisappearance was to go directly to him. 

She sat stiffly in the cab holding her hands tight-clenched to controltheir trembling. Her whole being seemed to tremble like a substancestrained to the point of a perpetual vibration. She was not conscious ofit; was only conscious of her will stretching out like a tangible thing, grasping at a fleeing Chrystie and dragging her back. And under that laya substratum of anguish--that it was _her_ fault, _her_ fault. The wheelsrepeated the words in their rhythmic rotation; the horse's hoofs hammeredthem out on the pavement. 

The night clerk at the Argonaut Hotel, drowsing behind his desk, sat upwith a start when he saw her. Ladies in such gala array were rare at TheArgonaut at any hour, much more so at long past midnight. That this onewas agitated even the sleepy clerk could see. Her face was nearly aswhite as the dress showing between the loosened fronts of her cloak. Thevoice in which she asked if Mr. Mayer was there was a husky undertone. The clerk, scrambling to his feet, said yes, as far as he knew Mr. Mayerwas in his room. He had come in about ten and hadn't gone out since. 

A change took place in her expression; the strained look relaxed and thewhite neck, showing between the cloak edges, lifted with a caught breath. 

"Where is he?" she said, and before the man could answer had turned andswept toward the stairs. 

"Second floor--two doors from the stairs on your right--No. 8, " hecalled, and watched her as she ran, her skirts lifted, the rich cloakdrooping about her form as it slanted forward in the rush of her ascent. 

Mayer was still up and sitting at his desk. Everything was progressingsatisfactorily. An excellent dinner had exerted its comforting influenceand the telephone message to Chrystie had shown her to be reassuringlyuncomplaining and tranquil. Elated by a heady sense of approachingsuccess he had packed his trunk in the bedroom and then come back to theparlor and added up his resources and coming expenses. He had calculatedwhat these would be with businesslike thoroughness, his mind, under theprocess of addition and subtraction, cogitating on a distribution offunds that would at once husband them and yield him the means ofimpressing his bride. Through the word "jewelry" he had drawn his pen, substituting "candy and flowers, " and was leaning back in gratifiedcontemplation when a knock fell on the door. He rose to his feet, frightened, for the first moment inclined to make no answer. Then knowingthat the light through the transom would betray his presence, he called, "Come in. "

Lorry Alston, in evening dress, pale-faced and alone, entered. 

His surprise and alarm were overwhelming. With the pen still in his handhe stood speechless, staring at her, and had she faced him then and therewith her knowledge of the facts, admission might have dropped, in scaredamaze, from his lips. 

But the sight of him, peacefully employed in his own apartment, when shehad suspected him of being somewhere else, nefariously engaged in runningaway with her sister, had so relieved her, that, in that first moment ofencounter, she was silent. Bewilderment, verging toward apology, kept heron the threshold. Then the memory of the letter sent her over it, broughtback the realization that even if he was here by himself he must knowsomething of Chrystie's whereabouts. 

Closing the door behind her she said:

"Mr. Mayer, I'm looking for my sister. "

If that told him that she did not know where Chrystie was, it also toldthat she connected him with the girl's absence. He controlled his alarmand drew his shaken faculties into order. 

"Looking for your sister!" he repeated. "Looking for her _here_?"

"Yes. " She advanced a step, her eyes sternly fixed on him. He did notlike the look, there was question and accusation in it, but he was ableto inject a dignified surprise into his answer. 

"I don't understand you, Miss Alston. Why should you come to _me_ at thishour to find your sister?"

He did it well, wounded pride, hostility under unjust suspicion, strongin his voice. 

"Chrystie's gone, " she answered. "She told me she was going to friends, and I find she isn't there. She deceived me and I had reason--I heardsomething tonight that made me think--" She stopped. It was horrible tostate to this man, now frankly abhorred, what she suspected. There was aslight pause while he waited with an air of cold forbearance. 

"Well, " he said at length, "would it be too much trouble to tell me whatyou think?"

She had to say it:

"That she had gone to you. "

"To _me_?" He was incredulous, astounded. 

"Yes. Had run away with you. "

"What reason had you for thinking such a thing?"

She made a step forward, ignoring the question. 

"She isn't here--I can see that--but where is she?"

"How should I know?"

"Because you must know something about her, because you _do_ know. Chrystie of herself wouldn't tell me lies; someone's made her do it, _you've_ made her do it. "

"Really, Miss Alston--"

But she wouldn't give him time to finish. 

"Mr. Mayer, you've got to tell me where she is. I won't leave heretill you do. "

He had always felt and disliked a quality of cool reasonableness inthis girl. Now he saw a fighting courage, a thing he had never guessedunder that gentle exterior, and he liked it even less. Had he followedhis inclination he would have treated her with the rough brutality hehad awarded Pancha, but he had to keep his balance and discover howmuch she knew. 

"Miss Alston, we're at cross-purposes. We'd come to a betterunderstanding if I knew what you're talking about. You spoke of findingout something tonight. If you'll tell me what it is I'll be able toanswer you more intelligently. "

She thrust her hand into her belt, drew out a folded paper and handedit to him. 

"_That. _ I found it when I came back from the opera. "

He recognized the writing at once, and before he was halfway through hisrage against Pancha was boiling. When he had finished he could not trusthis voice, and staring at the paper, he heard her say:

"I've known for some time Chrystie was troubled and not herself, and thisafternoon when I saw her go I _knew_ something was wrong. She looked ill;she could hardly speak to me. And then _that_ came, and I telephoned tothe Barlows'--the place she was going. She wasn't there, they'd neverasked her, never expected her. She's gone somewhere--disappeared. " Sheraised her voice, hard, threatening, her face angrily accusing, "Where isshe, Mr. Mayer? Where is she?"

He knew it all now, and his knowledge made him master. 

"Miss Alston, I'm very sorry about this--"

"Oh. Don't talk that way!" she cried, pointing at the letter. "What does_that_ mean?"

"I think I can explain. You've given yourself a lot of unnecessarytrouble and taken this thing, " he scornfully dropped the letter on thetable, "altogether too seriously. Sit down and let me straighten it out. "

He pointed to the rocker, but she did not move, keeping her eyes withtheir fierce steadiness on his face. 

"How _could_ I take it too seriously?" she said. 

"Why"--he smiled in good-natured derision--"what is it? An anonymousletter, evidently by the wording and the writing the work of anuneducated person. It's perfectly true that I've seen your sister severaltimes on the streets, and once I _did_ happen upon her when she wastaking a walk in the plaza by the Greek Church. But there's nothingunusual about that--I've met and talked with many other ladies in thesame way. The writer of that rubbish evidently saw us in the plaza anddecided--to use his own language--that he'd have some fun with us, orrather with me. The whole thing--the expression, the tone--indicates avulgar, malicious mind. Don't give it another thought, it's unworthy ofyour consideration. "

He saw he had made an impression. Her eyes left him and she stood gazingfixedly into space, evidently pondering his explanation. In a pleasantlypersuasive tone he added:

"You know that I've not been a constant visitor at your house. You'veseen my attitude to your sister. "

She made no reply to that, muttering low as if to herself:

"Why should anyone write such a letter without a reason?"

"Ah, my dear lady, why are there mischief makers in the world? I'mawfully sorry; I feel responsible, for the person who'd do such a thingis more likely to be known by me than by you. It's probably some servantI've forgotten to tip or by accident given a plugged quarter. "

There was a pause, then she turned to him and said:

"But where's Chrystie?"

He came closer, comforting, very friendly:

"Since you ask me I'd set this down as a prank. She's full of highspirits--only a child yet. She's gone somewhere, to some friend's house, is playing a joke on you. Isn't that possible?"

"Yes, possible. " She had already found this straw herself, but grasped itanew, pushed forward by him. 

He went on, his words sounding the note of masculine reason andreassurance. 

"You'll probably hear from her tomorrow, and you'll laugh together overyour fears of tonight. But if you take my advice, don't say anythingoutside, don't tell anyone. You're liable to set the gossips talking, andyou never know when they'll stop. They might make it very unpleasant foryou both. Miss Chrystie doesn't want her schoolgirl tricks magnified intoscandals. "

She nodded, brows drawn low, her teeth set on her underlip. If he hadconvinced her of his innocence he saw he had not killed her anxieties. 

"Is there any way I can help you?" he hazarded. 

She shook her head. She had the appearance of having suddenly becomeoblivious to him--not finding him a culprit, she had brushed him aside asnegligible. 

"Then you'll go home and give up troubling about it?"

"I'll go home, " she said, and with a deep sigh seemed to come back to themoment and his presence. Moving to the table she picked up the letter. Now that he was at ease, her face in its harassed care touched avulnerable spot. He was sorry for her. 

"Don't take it so to heart, Miss Alston. I'm convinced it's going to turnout all right. "

She gave him a sharp, startled look. 

"Of course it is. If I thought it wasn't would I be standing heredoing nothing?"

She walked to the door, the small punctilio of good-bys ignored asshe had ignored all thought of strangeness in being in that place atthat hour. 

"I wish I could do something to ease your mind, " he said, watching herreceding back. 

"You can't, " she answered and opened the door. 

"Have you a trap--something to take you home?"

She passed through the doorway, throwing over her shoulder:

"Yes, I've a cab--it's been waiting. "

In spite of his success he had, for a moment, a crestfallen sense offeeling small and contemptible. He watched her walk down the hall andthen went to the window and saw her emerge from the street door, andenter the cab waiting at the curb. 

Alone, faced by this new complication, the sting of her disparagingindifference was forgotten. There was no sleep for him that night, andlighting a cigarette he paced the room. He would have to let the gamblingdebt go; there could be no delay now. By the afternoon of the next dayLorry would be in a state where one could not tell what she might do. Hewould have to leave on the morning train, call up Chrystie at seven, goout and change the tickets, and meet her at Oakland. In the suddenconcentrating of perils, the elopement was gradually losing itssurreptitious character and becoming an affair openly conducted underthe public eye. But there was no other course. Even if they were seen onthe train they would reach Reno without interference, and once there hewould find a clergyman and have the marriage ceremony performed at once. After that it didn't matter--he trusted in his power over Chrystie. Inthe back of his mind rose a discomforting thought of an eventual"squaring things" with Lorry, but he pushed it aside. Future difficultieshad no place in the present and its desperate urgencies. The thought ofPancha also intruded, and on that he hung, for a moment, his face evilwith a thwarted rage, his hands instinctively bent into talons. Had hedared he would like to have gone to her and--but he pushed that aside tooand went back to his plans and his pacings. 

Lorry went home convinced of Mayer's ignorance. Finding him at the hotelhad done half, his arguments and manner the rest. And during the driveback his explanation of Chrystie's disappearance had retained a consolingplausibility. She held to it fiercely, conned it over, tried to forceherself to see the girl impishly bent on a foolish practical joke. 

But when she was in her own room, the blank silence of the house abouther, it fell from her and left her defenseless against growing fears. Itwas impossible to believe it--utterly foreign to Chrystie's temperament. She racked her memory for occasions in the past when her sister hadindulged in such cruel teasing and not one came to her mind. No--shewouldn't have done it, she couldn't--something more than a joke had madeChrystie lie to her. A sumptuous figure in her glistening dress, shemoved about, rose and sat, jerked back the curtains, picked up anddropped the silver ornaments on the bureau. Her lips were dry, her heartcontracted with a sickening dread; never in all the calls made upon herhad there been anything like this; finding her without resources, reducing her to an anguished helplessness. 

If in the morning there was no word from Chrystie she would have to dosomething and she could not think what this should be. Mayer had notneeded to warn her against giving her sister up to the tongue of gossip. The most guileless of girls living in San Francisco would learn thatlesson early. But what could she do? To whom could she go for help andadvice? She thought of her mother's friends, the guardians of the estate, and repudiated them with a smothered sound of scorn. They wouldn't care;would let it get into the papers; would probably suggest the police. Andwould she not herself--if Chrystie did not come back or write--have to goto the police?

That brought her to a standstill, and with both hands she pressed on herforehead pushing back her hair, sending tormented looks about her. Ifthere was only someone who would understand, someone she could trust, someone--she dropped her hands, her eyes widening, fixed and startled, asa name rose to her lips and fell whispered on the stillness. It camewithout search or expectation, seemed impelled from her by her inwardstress, found utterance before she knew she had thought of him. A deepbreath heaved her chest, her head drooped backward, her eyelids closingin a relief as intense, as ineffably comforting, as the cessation of anunbearable pain. 

She stood rigid, the light falling bright on her upturned face, still asa marble mask. For a moment she felt bodiless, her containing shelldissolved, nothing left of her but her longing for him. Like an audiblecry or the grasp of her hand drawing him to her, it went out from her, imperious, an appeal and a summons. Again she whispered his name; butshe heard it only as the repetition of a solace and a solution, was notaware of forces tapped in lower wells of being. 

After that she felt curiously calmed, her wild restlessness gone, hernightmare terrors assuaged. If she did not hear from Chrystie by middayshe would call him up at his office and ask him to come to her. Sheseemed to have found in the thought of him not only a staff to uphold, but wisdom to guide. 

She drew the curtains and saw the first thin glimmering of dawn, pearl-faint in the sky, pearl-pale on the garden. The crystal trimmingsof her bodice gave a responsive gleam, and looking down she was aware ofher gala array. She slipped out of it, put on a morning dress, anddenuded her hair of its shining ornament. It seemed long ago, in anotherlife, that she had sat in Mrs. Kirkham's box, rejoicing in her costlytrappings, glad to be admired. 

Then she pulled a chair to the window and sat there waiting for the lightto come. It crept ghostly over the garden, trees and plants taking form, the walks and lawns, a vagueness of dark patches and lighter windings, emerging in gradual definiteness. The sky above the next house grew alucid gray, then a luminous mother-of-pearl. She could see the glisteningof dew, its beaded hoar upon cobwebs and grassy borders. There was nofootstep here to disturb the silence; the dawn stole into being in a deepand breathless quietude. 

CHAPTER XXX

MARK SEES THE DAWN

That same Tuesday afternoon Mark sat in the doorway of the cowshedlooking at the road. 

It was the first period of rest and ease he had had since his arrival. Hehad found the household disorganized, his father hovering, frantic, roundthe sick bed, and Sadie distractedly distributing her energies betweenher mother's room and the kitchen. It was he who had driven over toStockton and brought back a nurse, insisted on the doctor staying in thehouse and made him a shakedown in the parlor. When things began to lookbetter he had turned his hand to the farm work and labored through theweek's accumulation, while the old man sat beside his wife's pillow, hischin sunk on his breast. 

Today the tension had relaxed, for the doctor said Mother was going topull through. An hour ago he had packed his kit and driven off to his ownhouse up the valley, not to be back till tomorrow. It was very peacefulin the yard, the warm, sleepy air full of the droning of insect lifewhich ran like a thin accompaniment under a low crooning of song from thekitchen where Sadie was straightening up. On the front porch, the farmer, his feet on the railing, his hat on his nose, was sunk in the depths of arecuperating sleep. 

Astride the milking stool Mark looked dreamily at the familiar prospect, the black carpet of shade under the live oak, the bright bits of skybetween its boughs, beyond the brilliant vividness of the landscape. This was crossed by the tall trunks of the eucalyptus trees, all raggedbark and pendulous foliage, the road striped with their shadows. Helooked down its length, then back along the line of the picket fence, hisglance slowly traveling and finally halting at a place just opposite. 

Here his imagination suddenly restored a picture from the past--thetramp asking for water. His senses, dormant and unobserving, permittedthe memory to attain a lifelike accuracy and the figure was presented tohis inward eye with photographic clearness. Very still in the interestof this unprovoked recollection, he saw again the haggard face with itslowering expression, and remembered Chrystie's question aboutrecognizing the man. 

He felt now that he could, even in other clothes and a differentsetting. The eyes were unmistakable. He recalled them distinctly--a veryclear gray as if they might have had a thin crystal glaze like a watchface. The lids were long and heavy, the look sliding out from under themcoldly sullen. 

As he pictured them--looking surlily into his--a conviction rose uponhim that he had seen them since then, somewhere recently. They were notas morose as they had been that first time, had some vague associationwith smiles and pleasantness. He was puzzled, for he could only seem toget them without surroundings, without even a face, detached from allsetting like a cat's eyes gleaming from the dark. Unable to link them toanything definite he concluded he had dreamed of them. But theexplanation was not entirely satisfactory; he was left with a tormentingsense of their importance, that they were connected with something thathe ought to remember. 

He shook himself and rose from the stool--no good wasting time chasingsuch elusive fancies. The tramp had brought to his mind the money foundin the tules and he decided to walk up the road and try to locate thespot described to him that morning by Sadie. 

On the hillock, where eight months earlier Mayer had sat and cursed themarshes, he came to a stand, his glance ranging over the long, greenfloor. By Sadie's directions he set the place about midway between wherehe stood and the white square of the Ariel Club house. If it _was_ thetramp he had gone across from there, which would argue a knowledge of thecomplicated system of paths and planks. It was improbable--from hischildhood he could remember the hoboes footing it doggedly round the headof the tules. 

His thoughts were broken into by a voice hailing him, a fresh, reed-sweet pipe. 

"Hello, Mark--what you doin' there?"

It was Tito Murano returning from the Swede man's ranch up the trail, with a basket of eggs for his mother. Tito had become something of a heroin the neighborhood. In the preceding autumn he had developed typhoid, nearly died, and been sent to a relative in the higher land of thefoothill fruit farms. From there he had only recently returned with the_réclame_ of one who has adventured far and seen strange lands. Barelegged, his few rags flapping round his thin brown body, he chargedforward at a run, holding the egg basket out at arm's length. His facewas wreathed in happy smiles, for the encounter filled him with delight. Mark was his idol and this was the first time he had seen him. 

They sat side by side on the knoll and Tito told of his wanderings. Attimes he spit to show his growth in grace, and after studying the longsprawl of Mark's legs disposed his own in as close an imitation as theirlength would permit. It was when his story was over and the conversationshowed a tendency to languish that Mark said:

"I was just looking out over there and trying to locate the place wherethe bandits had their cache. "

Tito raised a grubby hand and pointed. 

"Right away beyont where you see the water shinin'. It's a sort ofisland--I was out there after I come back but the hole was all washedaway and filled up. "

"_You_ were out there? Do you know the way?"

Tito spit calmly, almost contemptuously. 

"_Me? _I bin often--there ain't a trail I don't know. I could lead youstraight acrost. I took a tramp wonct; anyways I would have took him ifhe'd let me. "

"A tramp!" Mark straightened up. "When?"

The episode of the tramp had almost faded from Tito's mind. What stilllingered was not the memory of his fear but the way he had been swindled. Now in company with one who always understood and never scolded, he wasfilled with a desire to tell it and gain a tardy sympathy. He screwed uphis eyes in an effort to answer accurately. 

"I guess it was last fall. Yes, it was, just before school commenced. Iwouldn't 'a done it--Pop'd have licked me if he'd 'a known--but hepromised me a quarter. "

"Who promised you a quarter?"

"Him--the tramp. And I was doin' it, but he got awful mean, sworesomethin' fierce and said I didn't know. And how was he to tell and usonly halfway acrost?"

"You mean you only took him halfway?"

"It was all he'd let me, " said Tito, on the defensive. "I tolt him it wasall right, but he just stood up there cursin' me. And then he got tothrowin' things, almost had me here"--he put his hand against hisear--"like he was plumb crazy. But I guess he wasn't, for he wouldn'tgive me the quarter. "

"Did you leave him there?"

"Sure I did. I run, I was scairt. Pop and Mom'd always be tellin' me tohave nothin' to do with tramps. And it was awful lonesome out there andhim swearin' and firin' rocks. "

Tito did not receive that immediate consolation he had looked for. Hisfriend was silent; a side glance showed him studying the tules withmeditative eyes. For a moment the little boy had a dreary feeling thathis confidence was going to be rewarded by a reprimand, then Mark said:

"Do you remember what the man looked like?"

"Awful poor with long whiskers all sort 'er stragglin' round. He'd astraw hat and a basket and eyes on him like he was sleepy. "

Again Mark made no response, and Tito, feeling that he had not graspedthe full depths of the tragedy, piped up plaintively:

"I'd 'a stood the swearin' and I could 'a dodged the rocks if he'd givenme the quarter. But I couldn't get it off him--not even a dime. "

That had a good effect, much better than Tito's highest hopes hadanticipated. 

"Well, he treated you mean, old man. And, take it from me--don't you goshowing the way to any more tramps. They're the kind to let alone. As forthe quarter I guess that's due with interest. Here it is. " And a halfdollar was laid on Tito's knee. 

At the first glance he could hardly believe it, then seeing it immovable, a gleaming disk of promise, his face flushed deep in the uprush of hisjoy. He took it, weighed it on his palm, wanted to study it, but insteadslipped it mannishly into the pocket of his blouse. His education hadnot included a training in manners, so he said nothing, just straightenedup and sent a slanting look into Mark's face. It was an eloquent look, beaming, jubilant, a shining thanks. 

They walked back together, or rather Mark walked and Tito circled roundhim, curvetting in bridling ecstasy. Mrs. Murano's temper being historic, Mark took the egg basket, and Tito, all fears of accident removed, abandoned himself to the pure joys of the imagination. He became at oncea horse and his rider, pranced, backed, took mincing sidesteps and long, spirited rushes; at one moment was all steed, mettlesome and wild; at thenext all man, calling, gruff-voiced, in quelling authority. 

Mark, the eggs safe, was thoughtful. So it must have been the tramp as hehad suspected. But the eyes--he could not shake off that haunting fancyof a second encounter. All the way home his mind hovered round them, strained for a clearer vision, seemed at moments on the edge ofillumination, then lost it all. 

That night in his room under the eaves he did not sleep till late. Thehouse sank early into the deep repose following emotional stress, thenurse's lamp brightening one window in its black bulk. Outside the nightbrooded, deep and calm, with whispers in the great oak's foliage, openfield and wooded slope pale and dark under the light of stars. Mark, hishands clasped behind his head, looked at the blue space of the window anddreamed of Lorry. He saw her in various guises, a procession of Lorryspassing across the blue background. Then he saw her as she had been thelast time and that Lorry had not passed with the rest of the procession. She had lingered, reluctant to follow the fleeting, unapproachableothers, had seemed to draw nearer to him, almost with her hands out, almost with a shining question in her eyes. Holding that picture of herin his heart he finally fell asleep. 

Some hours later he woke with the sound of her voice in his ears. She wascalling him--"Mark, Mark, " a clear, thin cry, imploring and urgent. Hesat up answering, heard his own voice suddenly fill the silence loud andstartling, "Lorry, " and then again lower, "Lorry. " For a moment he had noidea where he was, then the starlight through the open window showed himthe familiar outlines, and, looking stupidly about, he repeated, dazed, certain he had heard her, "Lorry, where are you?"

The silence of the house, the large outer silence enfolding it, answered him. 

He was fully awake now and rose. The reality of the cry in its tenuous, piercing importunity, grew as his mind cleared. He could not believe butthat he had heard it, that she might not be somewhere near calling to himin distress. He opened the door and looked into the hall--not a sound. Atthe foot of the stairs the light from his mother's room fell across thedarkness in a golden slant. He turned and went to the window. Hisawakening had been so startling, his sense of revelation so acute, thatfor the moment he had no consciousness of prohibiting conditions. When helooked out of the window he would have felt no surprise if he had seenLorry below gazing up at him. 

After that he stood for a space realizing the fact. He had had no dream, the voice had come to him from her, a summons from the depths of somedire necessity. He knew it as well as if he had heard her say so, as ifshe _had_ been outside the window calling him to come. He knew she wasbeset, needed him, that her soul had cried to his and in its passionateurgency had broken through material limitations. 

He struck a match and consulted his watch--a quarter to four. Then, as hedressed and threw some clothes into a bag, he thought over the quickestroute to the city. A stage line to Stockton crossed the valley eightmiles to the south. By making a rapid hike he could catch the down stageand be in San Francisco before midday. He scrawled a few lines to Sadie, stood the note up across the face of the clock, and, his shoes in hishand, stole down the stairs and out of the house. 

The country slept under the hush that comes before the dawn. There wasnot a rustle in the roadside trees, a whisper in the grass. Farmhouseand mansion showed in forms of opaque black, muffled in black foliageand backed by a blue-black horizon. Above the heavens spread, vast andfar removed, paved with stars and mottlings of star dust. The sparklingdome, pricked with white points and blotted with milky stains, diffuseda high, aerial luster, palely clear above the land's dense darkness. Mark looked up at it, unaware of its splendors, mind and glance raisedin an instinctive appeal to some remote source of strength in thoseillumined heights. 

As his glance fell back to the road he suddenly knew where he had seenthe eyes. There was no jar of recognition, no startled uncertainty. Hesaw them looking at him from the face of Boyé Mayer, standing in Lorry'sdrawing-room with his hands resting on the back of a chair. 

He stopped dead, staring ahead. Lorry's summons, the tramp, the man inevening dress against the background of the rich room--all these drew toa single point. What their connection was he could not guess, was onlyaware of them as related, and, accepting that, forged forward at aswinging stride. The beat of his feet fell rhythmic on the dust; hisbreath came deep-drawn and even; his eyes pierced the dark ahead, fixedon landmarks to be passed, goals to be gained, stations to leave behindhim in his race to the woman who had called. 

Unnoted by him a pale edge of light stole along the east, throwing outthe high, crumpled line of the Sierra. The landscape developed fromnebulous shadows and enfoldings to hill slopes, tree domes, the clusteredgroupings of barns. A stir passed, frail and delicate, over the earth'sface, a light tentative trembling in the leaves, a quiver through thegrain. Birds made sleepy twitterings; the chink of running water camefrom hidden stream beds; plowed fields showed the striping of furrows onwhich the dew glistened in a silvery crust. The day was at hand. 

CHAPTER XXXI

REVELATION

While Lorry was still queening it in the front of Mrs. Kirkham's box, while Chrystie was tossing in her strange bed, while Boyé Mayer waspacking his trunk, while Mark was thinking of Lorry in his room under theeaves, Garland, one of the actors in this drama now drawing to itsclimax, stood against the chain of a ferry boat bumping its way into theMarket Street slip. 

He was over it first, racing up the gangway and along the echoing passageto the street. People growled as he elbowed them, plowed a passagethrough their slow-moving ranks, and ran for the wheeling lights of thetrolleys. He made a dash for one, leaped on its step, and holding to anupright, stood, breathing quickly, as the car clanged its way up thegreat thoroughfare. He had to change by the Call Building, and his heartwas hammering on his ribs as he dropped off the second car at the cornerof Pancha's street. 

Up its dim perspective he could see the two ground glass globes at theVallejo's steps. He wanted to run but did not dare--the habits of thehunted still held--and he walked as fast as he could, sending his glanceahead for her windows. When he saw light gleaming from them his headdrooped in a spasm of relief. All the way down the fear that she mightbe in a hospital--a public place dangerous for him to visit--hadtortured him. 

Cushing, behind the desk, yawning over the evening paper, roused at thesight of him and showed a desire to talk. At the sentence that "MissLopez was gettin' along all right, " the visitor moved off to the stairs. He again wanted to run but he felt Cushing's eyes on his back and made asober ascent till the turn of the landing hid him; then he rushed. At herdoor he knocked and heard her voice, low and querulous:

"Who is it now?"

"The old man, " he whispered, his mouth to the crack. It was opened by herand he had her in his arms. 

Joy at the sight and feel of her, the knowledge that she was not as hehad pictured in desperate case, made him speechless. He could only pressher against him, hold her off and look into her face, his own working, broken words of love and pity coming from him. His unusual display ofemotion affected her, deeply stirred on her own account, and she clung tohim, weak tears running down her cheeks, caressing him with hands thatsaid what her shaking lips could not utter. 

He supported her to the sofa and laid her there, covering her, soothingher, his concern finding expression in low, crooning sounds such as womenmake over their sick babies. When she was quieted he drew the armchair upbeside her, and, his hand stroking hers, asked about her illness. He hadread in the paper that it was a nervous collapse caused by overwork, andhe chided her gently. 

"What did you keep on for when you were so tuckered out? Why didn't youlet up on it sooner? You could 'a stood the expense, and if you didn'twant to use your own money what's the matter with mine?"

"I didn't want to stop, " she murmured. "Every day I kept thinking I'd beall right. "

"Oh, hon, that don't show good sense. How can I keep up my lick if Ican't trust you better? You've pretty near finished me. I come on it in apaper up there in the hills-God, I didn't know what struck me. It'store me to pieces. "

His look bore testimony to his words. He was old, seamed with lines, fallen away from his robust sturdiness. She suddenly seemed unable tobear all this weight of pitifulness--his, hers, the world's outsidethem. At first she had resolved to keep the real cause of her illnesssecret. But now his devastated look, his pathetic tenderness, shatteredher. She was a child again, longing to creep into the arms that wouldhave held her against all harm, droop on the rough breast where she hadalways found sympathy. As the truth had come out under Growder'skindness, the truth came again. But this time there were noreservations; the rich girl took her place in the story. Others mightsee in that a mitigating circumstance but not the man who valued herabove all girls, rich or poor. 

Garland listened closely, hardly once interrupting her. When she finishedhis rage broke and she was frightened. Years had passed since she hadseen him aroused and now his lowering face, darkened with passion, hischoked words, brought back memories of him raging tremendously in olddead battles with miner and cattleman. 

"Pa, Pa, " she cried, stretching her hands toward him, "what's theuse--what can you do? It's finished and over; getting mad and cursingwon't make it any better. "

But he cursed, flinging the chair from him, rumbling out his wrath, beyond the bounds of reason. 

"Don't talk so, " she implored and slid off the sofa to her feet. "They'llhear you in the next room. I can't afford to let this get around. "

For the first time in her knowledge of him he was deaf to the claims ofher welfare. 

"Who is this fancy gentleman?" he cried. "Where is he?"

"Oh, why did I tell you?" she wailed. "What got into me to tell you! Ican't fight with you--I won't let you go to him. There's no use--it's allover, it's done, it's ended. _Can't_ you see?"

He made no answer and she went to him, catching at his arm and shoulder, staring, desperately pleading, into his face. 

"You talk like a fool, " he said, pushing her away. "This is my job. Where is he?"

As she had said, she was unable to fight with him. Her enfeebled body wasempty of all resistant force. Now, as she clung to him, she felt itssickly weakness, its drained energies. She wanted peace, the sofa again, the swaying walls to steady, the angry man to be her father, quiet in thearmchair. She forgot her promise to Crowder, her pledged word, everything, but that there was a way to end the racking scene. Holding tothe hand that thrust her aside she said softly:

"There's a punishment coming to him that's better than anything _you_can give. "

His glance shifted to hers, arrested. 

"What you mean?"

"He's done something worse than the way he's treated me--something thelaw can get him for. "

"What?"

"Sit down quiet here and I'll tell you. "

She pointed to the overturned chair and made a step toward the sofa. Heremained motionless, watching her with somberly doubting eyes. 

"It's true, " she said; "every word. It comes from Charlie Crowder. Whenyou hear it you'll see, and you'll see too that you'll only mix things upby butting in. They're getting their net ready for him, and they'll havehim in it before the week's out. "

This time the words had their effect. He picked up the chair and broughtit to the sofa. She sat there erect, her legs curled up beside her, andtold him the story of Boyé Mayer and the stolen money. 

The light was behind him and against it she saw him as a formless shape, the high, rounded back of the chair projecting above his head. Thesilence with which he listened she set down to interest, and feeling thatshe had gained his attention, that his wrath was appeased by thisunexpected retribution, her own interest grew and the narrative flowedfrom her lips, fluent, complete, full of enlightening detail. 

Once or twice at the start he had stirred, the rickety chair creakingunder his weight. Then, slouched against its back, he had settled intoabsolute stillness. To anyone not seeing him, it might have seemed thatthe girl was talking to herself, pauses that she made for comment passedin silence, questions she now and then put remained unanswered. Peeringat him she made him out, a brooding mass, his chin sunk into his collar, his hands clasped over his waist, his eyes fixed on the floor. 

When she was done he stayed thus for a moment apparently so buried inthought that he could not rouse himself. 

"Well, " she said, surprised at his silence, "isn't it true what I said?Hasn't fate rounded things up for him?"

The chair creaked as he moved, heavily as if with an effort. He laid hishands on the arms and drew himself forward. 

"Yes, " he muttered, "it sounds pretty straight. "

"Would anything you could do beat that?"

He sat humped together looking at the floor, his powerful, gnarled handsgripping at the chair arms. She could see the top of his head with a baldplace showing through the thick, low-lying grizzle of hair. 

"Nup, " he said, "I guess not. "

He heaved himself up and walked across the room to the window. 

"It's as hot as hell in here, " he growled as he fumbled at the sash. 

"Hot!" she exclaimed. "Why, it's cold. What's the matter with you?"

"It's these barred-up city places; they knock me out. I smother in'em. " He threw back the window and stood in the opening. "I'll shut itin a minute. "

She pulled up the Navajo blanket and cowering under it said withvengeful zest:

"I guess there won't be a more surprised person in this burg than Mr. Boyé Mayer when they come after him. "

"Do you know when they're calculatin' to do it?"

"Thursday or Friday. Charlie said he was going to give the Express peoplehis information some time tomorrow and after they'd fixed things he'dspring the story in the _Despatch_. "

"If he gives it in tomorrow they'll have him by evening. "

"I don't think they'll be in any rush. Mr. Mayer's not going to skip;he's too busy with his courting. "

There was no reply, and pulling the blanket higher, for the night airstruck cold, she went on in her embittered self-torment:

"I wanted to give him a jolt myself and I tried, but I might as well havestayed out. You and me show up pretty small when the law gets busy. That's the time for us to lie low and watch. And he thinking himself sosafe, drawing out all the money. Maybe it was to buy her presents or gethis wedding clothes. I'd like--"

The voice from the window interrupted her. 

"That paper--the one he had under the floor--Crowder said a piece wastore out?"

"Yes, part of his correspondence letter--the last paragraph about me. Don't you remember it? It was that one after 'The Zingara' started, wayback in August. I showed it to you here one evening. I thought maybeMayer had read it and that was what brought him to see me--got him sortof curious. But Charlie thinks he wasn't bothering about papers justthen. He had it on him and used it to wrap up the money and that piecegot torn out someway by accident. "

"Um--looks that way. "

The current of air was chilling the room, and Pancha, shivering under theblanket, protested. 

"Say, Pa, aren't you going to shut that window? It's letting in an awfuldraught. " He made no movement to do so, and, surprised at hisindifference to her comfort, she said uneasily, "You ain't got a fever, have you?"

"Let me alone, " he muttered. "Didn't I tell you these het-up roomsknock me out. "

She was silent--a quality in his voice, a husky thinness as if itsvigor was pinching out, made her anxious. He was worn to the bone, theshade of himself. She slid her feet to the floor, and throwing off theblanket said:

"Looks like to me something is the matter with you. The room ain't hot. "

"Oh, forget it. For God's sake, quit this talk about me. "

He closed the window and turned to her. As he advanced the lamp's glarefell full on him and she saw his face glistening with perspiration anddarkened with unnatural hollows. In that one moment, played upon by therevealing side light, it was like the face of a skeleton and she rosewith a frightened cry. 

"Pop! You _are_ sick. You look like you were dead. "

She made a step toward him and before her advance he stopped, bristling, fierce, like a bear confronted by a hunter. 

"You let me alone. You're crazy--sit down. Ain't I gone through enoughwithout you pickin' on me about how I _look_?"

She shrank back, scared by his violence. 

"But I can't help it. The room's like ice and you're sweating. I saw iton your forehead. "

He almost roared. 

"And supposin' I am? Ain't I given you a reason? Sweating? A Chihuahuadog 'ud sweat in this d----d place. It's like a smelting furnace. " With astiff, uncertain hand he felt in his pocket, drew out a bandanna and ranit over his face. "God, you'd think there was nothin' in the world butthe way I _look_! I hiked down from the hills on the run to see you andyou nag at me till I'm almost sorry I come. "

That was too much for her. The tears, ready to flow at a word, poured outof her eyes, and she held out her arms to him, piteously crying:

"Oh, don't say that. Don't scold at me. I wouldn't say it if I didn'tcare. What would I do if you got sick--what would I do if I lost you?You're all I have and I'm so lonesome. "

He ran to her, clasped her close, laid his cheek on her head as sheleaned against him feebly weeping. And what he said made it all right--itwas his fault, he was ugly, but it was because of what she'd told him. That had riled him all up. Didn't she know every hurt that came to hermade him mad as a she-bear when they're after its cub?

"Will you be back tomorrow?" she said when he started to go. 

"Yes, in the morning. Eight be too early?"

"No--but--" her eyes were wistful, her hands reluctant to loose his. "Will you have to leave the city soon?"

"I guess so, honey. "

"Tomorrow?"

"Maybe--but we'll get a line on that in the morning. "

"I wish you could stay, just for one day, " she pleaded. 

"I'll tell you then. What you want to do now is rest. Sleep tight anddon't worry no more. It's going to be all right. "

He gave her a kiss and from the doorway a farewell nod and smile. 

CHAPTER XXXII

THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT

When Garland passed through the lobby the hall clock showed him it wasafter midnight. Cushing, roused from a nap, looked up at the sound of hisstep, and asked how Miss Lopez was. "Gettin' on first rate, " he calledback cheerily as he opened the door and went out. 

His immediate desire was for silence and seclusion--a place where hecould recover from the stunned condition in which Pancha's story had lefthim. Before he could act on it he would have to get back to a clearnesswhere coordinated thought was possible. He walked down the street in thedirection of his old lodgings; he had a latch-key and could get to hisroom without being heard. On the way he found himself skirting the openspace of South Park, an oval of darkness, light-touched at intervals andencircled by a looming wall of houses. Here and there on benches huddledfigures sat, formless and immovable, less like human beings than ghostscome back in the depths of night to find themselves denied an entranceinto life, and drooping disconsolate. His footsteps sounded abnormallyloud, thrown back from the houses, buffeted between their frowningfronts, as if they were maliciously determined to reveal his presence, wanted him to know that they too were leagued against him. He stumbledover the sidewalk's coping to the grass and stole to a bench under theshade of a tree. 

There he burrowed upward toward the light through the avalanche that hadfallen on him. 

At first there was only a gleam of it, a central glow. About this histhoughts circled like May flies round a lamp, irresistibly attracted andseemingly as purposeless. 

"Hello, Panchita! Ain't you the wonder. Your best beau's proud ofyou"--that was the glow. He saw the words traced at the end of thecolumn, saw a hand tearing the piece out, saw into the mind that directedthe hand, knew its conviction of the paper's value. 

It was some time before he could get away from it; divert his mentalenergies to this night, the hour and its necessities, and the next day, the formidable day, now so close at hand. 

From a clock tower nearby two strokes chimed out, dropping separate androunded on the silence. They dropped on him like tangible things, callinghim to action. He sat up, his brain-clouds dispersed, and thought. Anyinformation of the lost bandit would gain clemency for Mayer, and Mayerhad a clew. Knapp would remember the paper taken from his partner's coatand buried with the money. That would lead them to Pancha. Years beforein Siskiyou he had witnessed the cross-examination of a girl, daughter ofan absconding murderer, and the scene in the crowded courtroom of thewild mountain town rose in his memory, with Pancha as the central figure. They would badger and break her down as they had the murderer's daughter. She would know everything. There would be no secrets from her any more. 

In an uprush of despair his life unrolled before him, all, it now seemed, progressing to this climax. Step by step he had advanced on it, buildedup to it as if it were the goal of his desire. Wanting to keep her inignorance he had created a situation that had worked out worse for herthan for him. He could fly, leave her to face it alone, enlightenmentcome with shame and ignominy. It wasn't fair, it wasn't human. If it hadonly been himself that he had ruined he wouldn't have cared, he wouldhave been glad to end the whole thing. But under the broken law of hisconduct he had held to the greater law of his love. It was that he wouldsacrifice; be untrue to what had sustained him as his one ideal. He couldhave cried to the heavens that to let her know him for what he was, was aretribution too great for his sins. Death would have been a release buthe could not die. He must live and make one final fight to preserve thebelief that was his life's sole apology. 

That determination toughened him, his despair past, and wrestling withthe problem he came upon its solution and with it his punishment. 

He would tell the man, give him warning and let him go. There was plentyof time; the authorities were not yet informed; no one was on the watch. Mayer could leave the city that morning and make the Mexican border bynight. It was the only way out and it dragged his penance with it--Panchaunavenged, the enemy rewarded, the prison doors set wide for the flightof their mutual despoiler. 

Three strokes chimed out and he rose, trying to step lightly with feetthat felt heavy as lead. It was very silent, as if the night and thebrooding city were at one in that conspiracy to impress him with a senseof their hostility. The houses were still malignly watchful, again tookup and tossed about his footsteps, echoed them from wall to wall till hewondered doors did not open, people did not come. On the main street heshrank by shop window and closed doorway, gliding blackly across a gushof light, slipping, a moving darkness, against the deeper darkness ofshuttered lower stories. He had it almost to himself--a policemanlounging on a corner, a reveler reeling by with indignant mutterings, oneor two night workers footing it homeward to rest and bed. 

At the door of a drugstore he stopped and looked in. A frowsy woman wastalking across the counter to a clerk whose bald head shone, glossy asivory, above the gray fatigue of his face. In a corner was a telephonebooth. Garland opened the door, then started as a bell jangled stridentlyand the bald-headed man craned his neck and the woman whisked round. 

"Telephone, " he muttered, tentative on the sill. 

The clerk, too listless for words, jerked his head toward the booth andthen handed the woman a package. As Garland entered the booth he heardher dragging step cross the floor and the bell jangle on her exit. 

While he waited he struggled for a closer control on the rage thatpossessed him. He had decided what he would say and he cleared his throatfor a free passage of the words that were to carry deliverance to one helonged to kill. He had expected a wait--the man, confidant in hissecurity, would be sleeping--but almost on top of his request for Mr. Mayer came a voice, wide-awake and incisive:

"Hello, who is it?"

His answer was very low, the deep tones hoarse despite his effort. 

"Is this Mr. Boyé Mayer?"

"Yes. What do you want? Who are you?"

The voice fitted his conception of the man, hard, commanding, withsomething sharply imperious in its cultivated accents. He thought hedetected fear in it. 

"It don't matter who I am. I got somethin' to say to you that matters. It's time for you to skip. "

There was a momentary pause, then the word was repeated, seemed to beejected quickly as if delivered on a rising breath:

"Skip?"

"Yes--get out. You've got time--till tomorrow afternoon. They'll belookin' for you then. "

Again there was that slight pause. When the voice answered, trepidationwas plain in it. 

"Who's looking for me? What are you talking about ?"

It was Garland's turn to pause. For a considering moment he sought hiswords, then he gave them in short, telegraphic sentences:

"End of August. The tules--opposite the Ariel Club. Twelve thousand. Whatcheer House, Sacramento. Harry Romaine. "

The pause was longer, then the voice came breathless, shaken:

"What in hell do you mean by this gibberish?"

"I guess that's all right. You don't need to play any baby business. Youknow now and _I_ know, and by tomorrow evening the Express company andthe police'll know. "

A stammering of oaths came along the wire, a burst of maledictions, interspersed by threats. Garland cut into it with:

"That don't help any. You ain't got time to waste that way. You wantto make the Mexican border by tomorrow night and to do that you got togo quick. "

The man's anger seemed to rise to a pitch of furious incoherence. Hiswords, shot out in a storm of passion and fear, were transmitted in astuttering jumble of sound, from which phrases broke, here and thererising into clearness. Garland caught one: "Who's turned you loose onthis? Who's behind it?" and the restraint he had put on himself gaveway. He laid his hand on the shelf before him as something to seize andwrenched at it. 

"If _I_ was there you'd know--I'd make it plain. And maybe you guess. Youthought you'd struck someone who was helpless. But she could pay you backand she _has_. "

He stopped, realizing what he was saying. Through the singing of theblood in his ears the answering words came as an unintelligible mutter. With an unsteady hand he hung up the receiver, his breath beating in loudgasps on the stillness that had so suddenly fallen on the small, walled-in place. For a space he sat crouched in the chair, trying tosubdue the pounding of his heart, the shaking of his limbs. Then, stealthily, like a guilty thing, he opened the door and came out. Fromabove a line of bottles on the prescription desk the clerk's bald headgleamed, his eyes dodging between them. 

"It's all right, " Garland muttered; "I'm through, " and shambled to thedoor with its jangling bell. 

In his room at Mrs. Meeker's he threw himself dressed on the bed. Theshade was up and through the window he could see the long flank ofthe new building and above it a section of sky. He kept his eyes onthe night-blue strip and as he lay there his spirit, all spring gone, sank from depths to depths. He saw nothing before him but the life ofthe outlaw, and, mind and body taxed beyond their powers, he longedfor death. 

Presently he slept, sprawled on the wretched bed, the light of the dawnrevealing the tragedy of his ravaged face. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE MORNING THAT CAME

When the voice had ceased Mayer stood transfixed at the phone, seeingnothing. He fumbled the receiver back into its hook and, wheeling, propped himself against the wall, his mouth slack, his eyelids drooped insickly feebleness. The final shock, succeeding the long strain, came likea blow on the head leaving destruction. 

He got to a chair and dropped into it, sweat-bathed, feeling as if coldairs were blowing on his damp skin. Sunk against the back, his legsstretched before him, his arms hanging over the sides, he lay shattered. His mind tried to focus on what he had heard and fell back impotent, eddying downward through darkling depths like a drowning swimmer. A vastweakness invaded him, turning his joints to water, giving him a sensationof nausea, draining his strength till he felt incapable of moving hiseyes, which stared glassily at the toes of his shoes. 

Presently this passed; he raised his glance and encountered the clockface on the mantelpiece. He held to it like a hand that was dragging himout of an abyss; watched it grow from a circular object to a white dialcrossed by black hands and edged by a ring of numerals. The hour markedslowly penetrated to his consciousness--a quarter to four. He drewhimself up and looked about; saw his notes on the desk, his hat on thetable, the matchsafe with a cigarette stump lying on its saucer. Theywere like memorials from another state of existence, things thatconnected him with a plane of being that he had left long ago. He had avision of himself in that distant past, packing his trunk, making brisk, satisfactory jottings on a sheet of hotel paper, standing on the hearthlooking into Lorry Alston's angry eyes. 

Groaning, he dropped his head into his hands, rocking on the chair, onlyhalf aroused. He was aware of poignant misery without the force to combatit, and knowing he must act could only remember. Irrelevant pictures, disconnected, having no point, chased across his brain--the saloon inFresno where he had cleaned the brasses, and, jostling it, Chrystie'sface, just before she had wept, puckered like a baby's. He saw the tulesin the low sun, the green ranks, the gold-glazed streams, Mark Burragecoming down the long drawing-room eyeing him from under thick brows, Lorry's hand with its sparkle of rings holding out the letter. 

That last picture shook him out of his torpor. He lifted his head andknew his surroundings for what they were--four walls threatening to closein on him. The necessity to go loomed suddenly insistent, became theobsessing matter, and he staggered to his feet. Flight suggested disguiseand he went to the bedroom and clawed about in the bottom of the cupboardfor the old suitcase which held the clothes he had worn on his Sacramentotrips. As he pulled it out he remembered the side entrance of the hotelaccessible by a staircase at the end of the hall; he could slip outunseen. There would be early trains, locals, going south; an express tobe caught somewhere down the line. By the next night he could be acrossthe Mexican border. It was the logical place, the only place--he knew ithimself and the voice had said so. 

The Voice! Obliterated by the mental chaos it had caused, whelmed in thesucceeding rush of fear, it now rose to recognition--a portentous fact. He stood stunned, the suitcase dangling from his hands, immovable inaghast wonder as if it had just come to his ears. A voice without apersonality, a voice behind which he could envisage no body, a voice ofwarning dropping out of the unknown, dropping doom!

His surface faculties were now obedient to his direction andautomatically responded to the necessity for haste. As he went aboutcollecting his clothes, tearing up letters, opening drawers, he ransackedhis brain for a clew to the man's identity, tried to rehear the voice andcatch a familiar echo, went back and forth over the words. And in thefevered restoration of them, the last sentences, "You thought you'dstruck someone who was helpless. But she could pay you back and she has, "brought light in an illuminating flash. "Pancha, " he whispered, "Pancha, "and stood rooted, recalling, searching the past, linking the known withthe deduced. 

The man was the bandit, the old lover, the one he had supplanted, theone who had written the message on the paper. He had heard she wassick--come to see her--and she had told him, called upon him to avengeher as she said she would. And the man--he couldn't--his hands weretied. If Mayer had the paper--and the cache showed it was gone--Mayercould direct the pursuit to Pancha and to Pancha's "best beau. " So, factmarshaled behind fact, he drew to the truth, grasped it, knew why he hadbeen warned and by whom. 

Pancha had found out somehow--but he did not linger on that; his mindwasted no time filling profitless gaps. Fiercely alive now it only sawwhat counted. He turned and looked out of the window, a glance in herdirection. She had made good, kept her word, beaten him. The feeblething, the scorned thing, that he had kicked out of his path, hadrisen and destroyed him. He stood for a still moment looking towardwhere she was, triumphant, waiting for his arrest, and he muttered, his gray face horrible. 

Soon afterward he was ready, the old hat and coat on, the suitcasepacked. There was a look about for forgotten details and he attended tothem with swift competence. The papers on the desk--those expenseaccounts--were crammed into his pockets, the shades drawn up, the bedrumpled for the room boy's eye in the morning. Then a last sweepingsurvey and he turned out the gas, opened the door and peered into thehall. It stretched vacant to the window at the far end, a subdued lightshowing its carpeted length. His nostrils caught its unaired closeness, his ears the heavy stillness of a place enshrining sleep. 

Night still held the streets, at this hour dim, deserted vistas, lookinglarger than they did by day. He stole along them feeling curiouslysmall, dwarfed by their wide emptiness, wanting to hide from theirobservation. It was typical of what the rest of his life would be, shunning the light, footing it furtively through darkness, foreverapprehensive, forever outcast. 

His heart sank into blackness, dense, illimitable. It stretched from himout to the edges of the world and he saw himself never escaping from it, groping through it from pursuers, always retreating, always looking backin fear. Poverty would be his close companion; makeshifts, struggles, tricks of deceit, the occupation of his days. The effort of new endeavorrose before him like a mountain to be climbed and for which he had notthe strength; the ease he was reft of, a paradise only valued now it waslost. Hate of those who had brought him so low surged in him, dominatingeven his misery. He set his teeth, looking up at the graying sky, feelingthe poison pressing at his throat, aching in his limbs, burning at theends of his fingers. 

There was a faint diffused light when he reached the corner of Pancha'sstreet, the first gleam of the coming day. Like one who sees temptationplaced before him in living form and hesitates, reluctant yet impelled, he stood and gazed at the front of the Vallejo Hotel. The lamps showed upa pinkish orange, two spheres, concrete and solid, in a swimming, silveryunreality. Beyond the steps a man's figure moved, walking up the street, his back to Mayer. It was very quiet; the hush before the city, turningin its sleep, stretched, breathed deeply, and awakened. 

Mayer went forward toward the lamps. 

He had no definite intention; was actuated by no formed resolution; was, for the moment, a being filled to the skin by a single passion. He feltlight, as if his body weighed nothing, or as if he might have beencarried by a powerful current buoyant and beyond his control. It took himup the steps to the door. Through a clear space in the ground glass panelhe looked in and saw that the hall was empty. His heart rose stranglinglyand then contracted; his hand closed on the knob, turned it and the dooropened. That unexpected opening, the vacant hall and stairway stretchingbefore him like an invitation, ended his lack of purpose. Despair andhate combined into the will to act, propelled him to a recognized goal. 

He entered and mounted the stairs. 

Cushing, having found the long vigil at the Vallejo exhausting, hadcontracted the habit of slipping out in the first reaches of the dawn toa saloon down the street. It was a safe habit, for even the fewnight-roving tenants the Vallejo had were housed at that hour, and if abelated reveler should stray in, the door was always left on the latch. Moreover he only stayed a few minutes; a warming gulp and he was backagain, wide-awake for the call of the day. His was the figure Mayer hadseen walking down the street. 

Pancha was asleep and dreaming. It was a childish dream, but it wasimpregnated with that imminent, hovering terror that often is associatedwith the simple visions of sleep. She was back in the old shack in Inyowhere her mother had died, and it was raining. Juana was sitting on theside of the bed, her dark hair parted, a shawl over her head framing herface. From the side of the bed she watched Pancha, who was sweeping, sweeping with urgent haste, haunted by some obscure necessity to finishand continually retarded by obstacles. Against the door the rain fell, loud, and then louder. It grew so loud that it ceased to be like rain, became a shower of blows, a fearful noise, never before made by water. Horror fell upon them, a horror of some sinister fate beyond the door. Juana held out her arms and Pancha, dropping the broom, ran to her, andclinging close listened to the sound with a freezing heart. 

She woke and it was still there, not so loud, very soft, and falling, between pauses, on her own door. Her fear was still with her and she satup, seeing the room faintly charged with light. "Who is it?" she said andheard her voice a stifled whisper, then, the knocking repeated, sheleaped out of bed and thrust her feet into slippers. She was awake nowand thought of her father, no one else would come at such an hour. As sheran to the door she called, "What is it--is something the matter?"Through the crack she heard an answering whisper, "Open--it's all right. Let me in. " It might have been anybody's voice. She opened the door andBoyé Mayer came in. 

They looked at one another without words, and after the look, she beganto retreat, backing across the room, foot behind foot. He locked thedoor and then followed her. There were pieces of furniture in the waythat she skirted or pushed aside, keeping her eyes on him, movingwithout sound. She knew the door into the sitting room was open and withone hand she felt behind her for the frame, afraid to turn her back onhim, afraid to move her glance, the withheld shriek ready to burst outwhen he spoke or sprang. 

She gained the doorway and backed through it and here breathed a hoarse, "Boyé, what do you want?" He made no answer, stealing on her, and sheslid to the table and then round it, keeping it between them. In the palelight, eye riveted on eye, they circled it like partners in a fantasticdance, creeping, one away and one in pursuit, steps noiseless, movementsdelicately alert. Her body began to droop and cower, her breath to stifleher; it was impossible to bear it longer. "Boyé!" she screamed and made arush for the door. She had shot the bolt back, her hand was on the knob, when he caught her. His grip was like iron, hopeless to resist, but shewrithed, tore at him, felt herself pressed back against the wall, hisfingers on her throat. 

It was a quarter to five on the morning of April 18, 1906. 

The first low rumble, the vibration beneath his feet, did notpenetrate his madness. Then came a road, an enormous agglomeration ofsound and movement, an unloosing of titanic elements--above them, under them, on them. 

They were separated, each stricken aghast, no longer enemies, beings ofa mutual life seized by a mutual terror. The man was paralyzed, notknowing what it was, but the girl, bred in an earthquake country, claspedher hands over her skull and bent, crouching low and screaming, "_Eltemblor!_" The floor beneath them heaved and dropped and rose, groaningas the ground throes wrenched it. From walls that strained forward andsank back, pictures flew, shelves hurled their contents. Breaking free, upright for a poised second, the long mirror lunged across the room, thencrashed to its fall. On its ruin plaster showered, stretches of ceiling, the chandelier in a shiver of glass and coiled wires. 

Through the dust they saw one another as ghosts, staggering, helpless, dodging toppling shapes. They shouted across the chaos and only knew theother had cried by the sight of the opened mouth. All sounds weredrowned in the surrounding tumult, the roar of the shaken city and the_temblor's_ thunderous mutter. Rafters, crushed together, then strainedapart, creaked and groaned and crunched. Walls receded with a reelingswing and advanced with a crackling rush. The paper split into shreds;the plaster skin beneath ripped open; lathes broke in splintered ends;mortar came thudding from above and swept in a swirling drive abouttheir feet. 

He shouted to her and made a run for the door. Hanging to the knob hewas thrown from side to side by the paroxysmal leaps of the building. The door jammed, and, his wrenchings futile, he turned and dashed to thewindow. Here again the sash stuck. He kicked it, frantic, caught aglimpse of the street, people in nightgowns, a chimney swaying and thenfalling in a long drooping sweep. Somewhere beyond it a high buildingshook off its cornices like a terrier shaking water from its hair. Grinding his teeth, cursing, he wrenched at the window, tore at theclasp, then turned in desperation and saw the door, loosed by a suddenthroe, swing open. Through reeling dust clouds Pancha darted for it, herflight like the swoop of a bird, and he followed, running crazily alongthe heaving floor. 

The hall was fog-thick with powdered mortar, and careening like a ship ina gale. He had an impression of walls zigzagged with cracks, offurniture, upturned, making dives across the passage. White figures wereall about; some ran, some stood in doorways and all were silent. Hethrust a woman out of his way and felt her move, acquiescingly, as ifindifferent. Another, a child in her arms, clawed at his back, forced himaside, and as she sped by he saw the child's face over her shoulder, placid and sweet, and caught her voice in a moaning wail, "Oh, my baby!Oh, my baby!" A man, holding the hand of a girl, was thrown against thewall and dropped, the girl tugging at him, trying to drag him to hisfeet. Something, with blood on its whiteness, lay huddled across the sillof an open doorway. 

Pancha was ahead of him, a long narrow shape that he could just discern. A length of ceiling fell between them, a sofa, like a thing endowed withmalign life, rushed from the wall and blocked his passage. He scrambledover it and saw the stair head, and a clearer light. That meantdeliverance--the street one flight below. The floor sagged and cracked, he could feel it going, and with a screaming leap he threw himself at thebalustrade, caught and clung. From above he heard a cry, "Up, up, notdown!" had a vision of Pancha on the second flight, flying upward, andhimself plunged downward to the street. 

The litter of the great mirror lay across the landing, the light from thehall on its shattered fragments, broken glitterings amid a débris ofgold. The balustrade broke and swung loose, the stairs drooped, humpedagain, and gave, sinking amid an onrush of walls, of splintered beams, ofceilings suddenly gaping and discharging their weight in a shoot ofplaster, snapped boards and furniture. Something struck him and he fellto his knees, struggled against a smothering mass, then sank, whelmed inthe crumbling collapse. 

Pancha at the stair top, lurching from wall to wall, felt a slowsubsidence, a sinking under her feet, and then the frenzied movementsettle into a long, rocking swing. A pallor of light showed through thedust rack, and making her way to it she found an open doorway giving on afront room. She passed through; crawled over a heap of entangledfurniture toward a window wide to the rising day. She thought she was onthe third story, then heard voices, looked out and saw faces almost on alevel with her own, the street a few feet below her, a clouded massing offigures, moving, gesticulating, calling up to the windows. The greaterbewilderment had shut out all lesser ones. She did not understand, didnot ask to, only wanted to get out and be under the safe roof of the sky. Climbing across the sill, she found her feet on grass, stumbled over abroken railing, heard someone shout, and was pulled to her feet by twomen. They held her up, looking her over, shaking her a little. Both theirfaces were as white as if they had been painted. 

"Are you hurt?" one of them cried, giving her arm a more violent shake asif to jerk the answer out quickly. 

"Hurt?" she stammered. "No. I'm all right. But--but how did I get outthis way--onto the street?"

She saw then that his teeth were chattering. Closing his lips tight tohide it he pointed to where she had come from. 

She turned and looked. The Vallejo, slanting in a drunken sprawl, itsroof railing hanging from one corner, its cornices strewn on thepavement, had sunk to one story. Built on the made ground of an old creekbed, it had buckled and gone down, the first and second stories crumplinglike a closed accordion, the top floor, disjointed and wrecked, restingon their ruins. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

LOST

Aunt Ellen always maintained the first shock threw her out of bed, andthen she would amend the statement with a qualifying, "At any rate I wason the floor when Lorry came and I never knew how I got there. " She alsosaid that she thought it was the end of the world, and pulled to her feetby Lorry, announced the fact, and heard Lorry's answer, short and sharp, "No--it's an earthquake. Don't talk. Come quick--run!"

Lorry threw a wrapper about her and ran with her along the hall, almostdark and full of rending noises, and down the stairs that Aunt Ellen saidafterward she thought "were going to come loose every minute. " A longclattering crash made her scream, "There--it's the house--we're killed!"And Lorry, wrestling with the front door, answered in that hard, breathless tone, "No, we're not--we're all right. " The door swung open. "Mind the glass, don't step in it. Down the steps--on the lawn--_quick_!"

They came to a stand by the front gate, were aware of the frantic leapsof the earth subsiding into a long, rhythmic roll, and stood dumbly, eachstaring at the other's face, unfamiliar in a blanched whiteness. 

There were people in the street, scatterings, and huddled clusters andsolitary figures. They were standing motionless in attitudes of poisedtension, as if stricken to stone. Holding snatched up garments over theirnight clothes, they waited to see what was coming next, not speaking ordaring to move, their eyes set in terrified expectancy. Lorry saw themlike dream figures--the fantastic exaggerations of nightmare--and lookedfrom them to the garden, the house--the solid realities. The ruins of thechimney lay sprawled across the flower beds, the splintered trunk of thefig tree rising from the debris. Stepping nimbly among the bricks, in hiswhite coat and trousers as if prepared to wait on table, was Fong. 

"Oh, Fong!" she cried. "Thank heaven, you're all 're all right!"

Fong, picking his way with cat-like neatness, answered cheerfully:

"I velly well. I see chimley fall out and know you and Missy Ellen all'ighty. If chimley fall in you be dead. "

"Oh, Fong!" Aunt Ellen wailed; "it's like the Day of Judgment. "

Fong, having no opinions to offer on this view of the matter, eyed hercostume with disapproval. 

"I get you cover. Velly bad stand out here that way. You ketch cold, " andturning went toward the house. 

"He'll be killed!" Aunt Ellen cried. "He mustn't go!" Then suddenly sheappeared to relinquish all concern in him as if on this day of doom therewas no use troubling about anything. Her eye shifted to Lorry, andscanning her became infused with a brisk surprise. "Why, Lorry, you'reall dressed. Did you sleep in your clothes? You certainly never had timeto put them on. "

Lorry was spared the necessity of answering. A violent quake rocked theground and Aunt Ellen, clasping her hands on her breast, closed her eyes. 

"It's beginning again--it's coming back. Oh, God, have mercy--God, have mercy!"

The figures in the street, emitting strangled cries, made a rush for thecenter of the road. Here they stood closely packed in a long line like agreat serpent, stationary in the middle of the thoroughfare. The lowmutter, the quiver under their feet, died away; Aunt Ellen dropped herhands and opened her eyes. 

"Is this going to go on? Isn't one enough?" she wailed. "I'll never entera house again, never in this world. "

The appearance of Fong, coming down the steps carrying an armchair, diverted her. 

"He's got out alive. Don't you go back into that house, Fong. It isn'tsafe, it'll fall at any moment. There's going to be more of this--itisn't finished. "

Fong, without answering, set the chair down beside her, taking from itsseat a cloak and an eiderdown coverlet. He and Lorry wrapped her in thecloak and disposing her in the chair tucked the coverlet round her knees. Thus installed, her ancient head decorated with crimping pins, her oldgnarled hands shaking in her lap, she sank against the back murmuring, "Oh, what a morning, what a morning!"

A lurid light glowed above the trees and sent a coppery luster down thestreet. The sun had swum up over the housetops and the people in theroadway; Lorry, on the lawn, gazed at it aghast, a crowning amazement. Ithung, a scarlet ball, enormously large, like a red seal of vengeancesuspended in the heavens. "Look at the sun, look at the sun!" came inthin cries from the throng. It shone through a glassy, brownish film inwhich its rays were absorbed, leaving it a sharply defined, magnifiedsphere. Fong, coming down the steps with another chair, eyed itcuriously. 

"Awful big sun, " he commented. 

"It's shining through something, " said Lorry. "It must be dust. "

Fong put the chair beside Aunt Ellen's, pressing it into steadiness onthe lawn's yielding turf. 

"Maybe smoke, " he answered. "After earthquake always fire. "

Aunt Ellen gave forth a despairing groan. 

"Anything _more_!"

"Don't be afraid, " Lorry comforted. "We've the best department in thecountry. If there should be any fires they'll be put out. "

Aunt Ellen took courage from this confident statement and, life runningstronger in her, sat up and felt at her head. 

"Oh, I've got my pins in, but how was I to take them out? Lorry, _do_ sitdown. You're as white as a sheet. "

"I'm all right, Aunt Ellen. Don't bother about me. I'm going intothe house. "

The old lady shrieked and clutched at her skirt. 

"No--no, I won't allow it. " Then as the girl drew her dress away, "Lorry Alston, do you want my death on your head as well as your own?If you want anything let Fong get it. He seems willing and anxious torisk his life. "

"Fong can't do this. I'm going to telephone; I want to find out ifChrystie's all right. I'm sorry but I must go, " and she ran to the house. 

From the first clear moment after the shock her thoughts had gone toChrystie. As she had tucked Aunt Ellen into the chair, she had beenthinking what she could do and the best her shaken brain had to offer wasa series of telephone messages to those friends where Chrystie might havegone. The anxiety of last night was as nothing to the anguish of thisunprecedented hour. 

That was why her face held its ashen pallor, her eyes their hunted fear. But there was no relief to be found at the phone--a dead stillness, noteven the whispering hum of the wires met her ear. "It's broken, " she saidto herself. "Or the girls have got frightened and gone. "

Out on the lawn she paused a moment beside Aunt Ellen. 

"Something's the matter with the wires. I'm going to the drugstore onSutter Street. "

"But what for--what for?" Aunt Ellen wanted to know. "Telephoning whenthe city's been smitten by the hand of God!"

"It's Chrystie, " she called over her shoulder as she went out of thegate. "I want to find out how she is. "

"Chrystie's at San Mateo, " Aunt Ellen quavered. "She's all right there. She's with the Barlows. "

The man in the doorway of his wrecked drugstore laughed sardonically ather request to use the phone. All the wires were broken--you couldn'ttelephone any more than you could fly. Everything was out of commission. You couldn't telegraph--you couldn't get a message carried--except byhand--not if you were the president of the country. Even the car lineswere stopped--not a spark of power. The whole machinery of the city wasat a standstill. "Like the clock there, " he said, and pointed to the faceof the timepiece hanging shattered from the wall, its hands marking aquarter to five. 

She went back, jostling through the people. Bold ones were going into thehouses to put on their clothes, timid ones commissioning them to throwtheirs out of the windows. She saw Chinese servants, unshaken from theirroutine, methodically clearing fallen bricks and cornices from frontsteps to which they purported, giving the matutinal sweeping. Sheskirted a fallen stone terrace, its copings strewn afar, the garden abovea landslide across the pavement. People spoke to her, some she knew, others who were strangers. She hardly answered them, hurrying on. Dazed, poor girl, they said, and small wonder. 

If Chrystie was in the city she would certainly come home. It was thenatural, the only, thing for her to do. But it would be impossible to sitthere waiting for her, doing nothing. The best course for Lorry was to goout and look for her--go to all those places where she might be. AuntEllen would be at the house, waiting, if she came, to tell her they wereall right. And Lorry would return at intervals to see if she had come. Ifby midday she hadn't, then there was Mark Burrage. She would go to him. But Chrystie would be back before then--she might be there even now. 

Her rapid walk broke into a run and presently she was flying past thegarden fence, sending her glance ahead under the trees. No--Aunt Ellenwas alone, looking as if she was participating in a solitary picnic. Infront of her stood a small table covered with a white cloth and set withglass and silver. She was inspecting it closely as if trying to findflaws in its arrangement and as Lorry came panting up the steps, saidwith a relieved air:

"Oh, there you are! Fong's brought out breakfast. He says the kitchen's awreck and he had to make the coffee on an alcohol lamp. The range is allbroken and there's something the matter with the gas in the gas stove. Did you get the Barlows?"

Lorry sank down on the other chair. 

"No. The telephone isn't working. We can't get any word to anyone. "

"She'll be all right, " said Aunt Ellen, lifting the silver coffee pot. "San Mateo's a long way off. "

It was an unfortunate moment for a heavy shock to send its rockingvibrations along the ground. Aunt Ellen collapsed against the chair back, the coffee pot swaying from her limp grasp. Lorry snatched it and AuntEllen's hands, liberated, clutched the corners of the table like talons. 

"Oh, God have mercy! God have mercy!" she groaned. "If this doesn't stopI'll die. "

Fong came running round the corner of the house. 

"Be care, be care, Missy Ellen, " he cried warningly. "You keep hold onhim coffee pot. I not got much alcohol. " He saw the treasure in Lorry'shand and was calmed. "Oh, all 'ight! Miss Lolly got him. You dlink himup, Miss Lolly. He make you good nerve. "

But Lorry could not drink much. It seemed to Aunt Ellen she hardlytouched the cup to her lips when she was up and moving toward the houseagain--this time for her hat. 

"Hat!" muttered the old lady, picking at a bunch of grapes. "The girl'sgone mad. Wanting a hat in the middle of an earthquake. "

Then her attention was attracted by a man stopping at the gate andbidding her good-morning. He was the fishman from Polk Street, extremelyexcited, his greeting followed by a voluble description of how he hadescaped from a collapsing building in his undershirt. Aunt Ellen swappedexperiences with him, and pointed to the chimney, which if it had falleninward would have killed her. The fishman was not particularly interestedin that and went on to tell how he had been down to Union Square and seenthousands of people there--and had she heard that fires had started inthe Mission--a good many fires? Lorry, emerging from the house, drewnear and said, as she had said to Fong:

"But there's no danger of fires getting any headway. You can't beat ourfiremen in the country. "

The fishman, moving to go, looked dubious. 

"Yes, we got a grand department, no one denies that. But the Mission'smostly wood and there's quite some wind. It looks pretty serious to me. "

He passed on and Lorry went to the gate. 

"Where are you going _now_?"' Aunt Ellen cried. 

"Out, " said Lorry, clicking up the hasp. "I want to see what's going on. I'll be back in an hour or two. If Chrystie comes, stay here withher-right here on this spot. "

Afterward Lorry said she thought she walked twenty miles that day. Herfirst point of call was Crowley's livery stable where she asked for acarriage. There were only two men in the place; one, owl-eyed andspeechless, in what appeared to be a state of drunken stupefaction, waved her to the other, who, putting a horse into the shafts of a cart, shook his head. He couldn't give her a carriage for love or money. Everyvehicle in the place was already gone--the rich customers had grabbedthem all, some come right in and taken them, others bought themoutright. He swung his hand to the empty depths of the building; not ananimal left but the one he had and he was taking it to go after his wifeand children; they were down in the Mission and the Mission was on fire. He had the animal harnessed and was climbing to the seat as Lorry leftthe stable. 

After that she gave up all hope of getting a carriage and started towalk. She went to every house in that part of the city where Chrystie hadfriends, and in none of them found trace or word of her sister. She sawpeople so stunned that they could hardly remember who Chrystie was, others who treated the catastrophe lightly--not any worse than the quakeof '68, nothing to make a fuss about--a good shake-up, that was all. Shefound families sitting down to cold breakfasts, last night's coffeeheated on the flicker of gas left in the pipes; others gathered in pallidgroups on the doorsteps, afraid to go into the house, undaunted Chinamenbringing down their clothes. 

As she moved her ears were greeted with a growing narrative of disaster. There had been great loss of life in the poorer sections; the injuredwere being taken to the Mechanics' Pavilion; the Mission was on fire andthe wind was with it. In this, the residential part, there was no water. Thrifty housekeepers were filling their bathtubs with the little dribblethat came from the faucets, and cautioning those who adhered to thehabits of every day to forego the morning wash. It was not till she wasnear home again that, meeting a man she knew, she learned the fullmeasure of ill-tidings. The mains had been torn to pieces, there was nowater in San Francisco, and the fire, with a strong wind behind it, waseating its way across the Mission, triumphant and unchecked. 

It gave her pause for a wide-seeing, aghast moment, then her eye caughtthe roof of her home and she forgot--Chrystie might be there, ought to bethere, _must_ be there. She broke into a run, sending that questingglance ahead to the green sweep of the lawn. It met, as it had donebefore, the figure of Aunt Ellen in front of the little table, the emptychair at her side. Even then she did not give up hope. Chrystie might bein the house; all Aunt Ellen's pleadings could not restrain her if itsuited her purpose to dare a danger. 

Before she reached the gate she called, hoarse and breathless. 

"Is Chrystie there?"

Aunt Ellen started and looked at her. 

"Oh, dear, here you are at last! I've been in such a state about you. No, of course Chrystie's not here. I knew she wouldn't be. They say all thetrains are stopped--the rails are twisted. How could she get back?"

Lorry dropped on to the steps. She did not know till then how much shehad hoped. Her head fell forward in the hollow of her chest, her handsclenched together in her lap. Aunt Ellen addressed the nape of her neck:

"I don't know what's going to happen to us. I've just sat here allmorning and heard one awful thing after another. Do you know that thewhole Mission's burning and there's not a drop of water to put it outwith? And if it crosses Market Street this side of the city'll burn too. "

Lorry did not answer and she went on:

"The people are coming out of there by hundreds. A man told me--no, itwas a woman. I didn't know her from Adam, but she hung over the gate likean old friend and talked and talked. They're coming out like rats;soldiers are poking them out with bayonets. All the soldiers are downthere from the Presidio and Black Point. And lots of people arekilled--the houses fell on them and caught them. It was a man told methat. He'd been down there and he was all black with smoke. I thought itwas the end of the world and it might just as well have been. Thankgoodness your father and mother aren't here to see it. And, _thank God_, Chrystie's safe in San Mateo!"

Lorry raised her head in intolerable pain. 

"_Don't_, Aunt Ellen!" she groaned, and got up from the step. 

The old lady, seeing her face, cast aside the eiderdown, and rose intottering consternation. 

"Oh, Lorry dear, you're faint. It's too much for you. Let's get acarriage and go--somewhere, anywhere, away from here. "

Lorry pushed away her helpless, shaking hands. 

"I'm all right, I'm all right, " she said. "Sit down, Aunt Ellen. Leave mealone. I'm tired, I've walked a long way, that's all. "

Aunt Ellen could only drop back, feebly protesting, into her chair. IfLorry wanted to walk herself to death _she_ couldn't stop her--nobodyminded what she said anyway. She sat hunched up in her wraps, murmurouslygrumbling, and when Fong brought out lunch on a tray, ordered a glass ofwine for her niece. 

"I suppose she won't drink it, " she said aggrievedly to Fong; "butwhether she does or not I want the satisfaction of having you bring it. "

Lorry did drink it and ate a little of the lunch. When it was over sherose again and made ready to go. She said she wanted to look at the firefrom some high place, see how near it was to Market Street. If itcontinued to make headway they might have to go further up town, andshe'd be back and get them off. 

She went straight to Mark Burrage's lodgings. She knew the businessquarter was burning and thought the likeliest place to find him was hisown rooms, where he would probably be getting ready to move out. It wasnearer the center of town than her own home and as she swung down thehills she felt, for the first time, the dry, hot breath of the fire. Cinders were falling, bits of blackened paper circling slowly down. Belowher, beyond the packed roofs and chimneys, the smoke rose in a thick, curling rampart. It loomed in mounded masses, swelled into loweringspheres, dissolved into long, soaring puffs, looked solid and yet wasperpetually taking new forms. In places it suddenly heaved upward, agigantic billow shot with red, at others lay a dense, churning wall, hereand there broken by tongues of flame. 

On this side of town the residence section was as yet untouched, but thebusiness houses were ablaze, and she met the long string of vehiclesloaded deep with furniture, office fixtures, crates, books, ledgers, safes. Here, also, for the first time, she heard that sound forever to beassociated with the catastrophe--the scraping of trunks dragged along thepavement. There were hundreds of them, drawn by men, by women, drawn tosafety with, dogged endurance, drawn a few blocks and despairinglyabandoned. She saw the soldiers charging in mounted files to the fireline, had a vision of them caught in the streets' congestion, plunginghorses and cursing men fighting their way through the tangled traffic. 

The door and windows of Mark's dwelling were flung wide and a pile ofhousehold goods lay by the steps. As she opened the gate a boy came fromthe house, stooped under the weight of a sofa, a woman behind him cardinga large crayon portrait in a gilt frame. The boy, dropping the sofa tothe ground, righted himself, wiping his dripping face on his sleeve. Thewoman, holding the picture across her middle like a shield, saw Lorry andshouted at her in excited friendliness:

"We're movin' out. Goin' to save our things while we got time. "

"Where's Mr. Burrage?" said Lorry. 

"Mr. Burrage?" The woman looked at her, surprised. "He ain't here; he'sin the country. "

"The country?" Too many faces were smitten by a blank consternation, toomany people already vainly sought, for Lorry's expression to challengeattention. 

"Yes, he went--lemme see, I don't seem to remember anything--I guess itwas nearly a week ago. His mother was took sick. He's lucky to be out ofthis. " Her glance shifted to the boy who was looking ruefully at the pileof furniture. "That'll do, Jack, we can't handle any more. "

As Lorry turned away she heard his desperate rejoinder:

"Yes, we got it out here, but how in hell are we goin' to get itany farther?"

After that she went to Mrs. Kirkham's. There was no reason to expectnews of Chrystie there, except that the old lady was a friend, had beena support and help on occasions less tragic than this. Also she knewmany people and might have heard something. Lorry was catching at anystraw now. 

In the midst of her wrecked flat, her servant fled, Mrs. Kirkham wasoccupied in sweeping out the mortar and glass and "straightening thingsup. " She was the first woman Lorry had seen who seemed to realize themagnitude of the catastrophe and meet it with stoical fortitude. Underher calm courage the girl's strained reserve broke and she poured out herstory. Mrs. Kirkham, resting on the sofa, broom in hand, was disturbed, did not attempt to hide it. Chrystie might have gone out of town, was hersuggestion, gone to people in the country. To that Lorry had the answerthat had been haunting her all day:

"But she would have come in. They all--everybody she could have goneto--have motors or horses. Even if she couldn't come herself she wouldhave sent someone to tell where she was. She wouldn't have left us thisway, hour after hour, without a word from her. "

It was dark when Mrs. Kirkham let her go, claiming a promise to bringAunt Ellen back to the flat. They couldn't stay in the Pine Streethouse. Only an hour earlier the grandnephew had been up to say that thefire had crossed Market Street that afternoon. No one knew now where itwould stop. 

With the coming of the dark the size of the conflagration was apparent. Night withdrew to the eastern edges of the heavens; the sky to the zenithwas a glistening orange, blurred with shadowy up-rollings of smoke, alongthe city's crest the torn flame ribbons playing like northern lights. Figures that faced it were glazed by its glare as if a red-dipped paintbrush had been slapped across them; those seen against it were blacksilhouettes moving on fiery distances and gleaming walls. The smell of itwas strong, and the showers of cinders so thick Lorry bent down the brimof her hat to keep them out of her eyes. As she came toward the house shefelt its heat, dry and baking, on her face. 

In front of her, walking in, the same direction, was a man, pacing thepavement with an even, thudding foot-fall. The gun over his shoulderproclaimed him a soldier, and having already heard tales of householdersstopped on their own doorsteps and not allowed to enter, she curbed hereager speed and slunk furtively behind him, skirting the fence. Throughthe trees she could see the lawn, lighted up as if by fireworks, and thenthe two chairs--empty--the eiderdown lying crumpled on the grass. In theshade of branches that hung over the sidewalk, she scaled the fence andflew, her feet noiseless on the turf. She passed the empty chairs, andsent a searching glance up toward the windows, all unshuttered, the glassgone from the sashes. Were they in there? Had Aunt Ellen dared to enter?Had Fong overcome her terrors and forced her to take shelter? If he hadshe would be no farther than the hall. 

Like a shadow she mounted the steps and stole in, the front dooryawning on darkness. The stillness of complete desolation andabandonment met her ears. 

She stood motionless, looking down the hall's shattered length and up thestairs. The noises from without, the continuous, dragging shuffle ofpassing feet, calls, crying of children, the soldier's directing voice, came sharply through the larger, encircling sounds of the city fightingfor its life. They flowed round the house like a tide, leaving itisolated in the silence of a place doomed and deserted. She suddenly feltherself alone, bereft of human companionship, a lost particle in a worldterribly strange, echoing with an ominous, hollow emptiness. A length ofplaster fell with a dry thud, calling out small whisperings andcracklings from the hall's darkened depths. It roused her and she turned, pushed open the door and went into the drawing-room. 

The long side windows let in the glare, a fierce illumination showing avista of demolishment. Through broken bits of mortar the parquetreflected it; it struck rich gleams from the fragments of a mirror, ranup the walls, playing on the gilt of picture frames. She moved forward, trying to think they might be there, that someone might flit ghost-liketoward her through that eerie barring of shadow and ruddy light. But theplace was a dry, dead shell; no pulse of life seemed ever to have beatenwithin those ravaged walls. She summoned her energies to call, send outher voice in a cry for them, then stood--the quavering soundunuttered--hearing a step outside. 

It was a quick, firm step, heavier than a woman's, and was coming downthe stairs. She stood suddenly stricken to a waiting tension, darkagainst a long sweep of curtain, possessed by an immense expectancy, agathering and condensing of all feeling into a wild hope. The stepsgained the hall and came toward the doorway. Her hands, clasped, went outtoward them, like hands extended in prayer, her eyes riveted on theopening. Through it--for a moment pausing on the sill to sweep the room'slength--came Mark Burrage. 

He did not see her, made a step forward and then heard her whisper, noword, only a formless breath, the shadow of a sound. 

"Lorry!" he cried as he had cried the night before, and stood staringthis way and that, feeling her presence, knowing her near. 

Then he saw her, coming out of the darkness with her outstretched hands, not clasped now, but extended, the arms spread wide to him as he haddreamed of some day seeing them. 

CHAPTER XXXV

THE UNKNOWN WOMAN

A few minutes after the Vallejo Hotel had sunk into ruin, a man camerunning up the street. Even among those shaken from a normal demeanor byan abnormal event, he was noticeable; for he was wild, a creaturedominated by a frenzied fear. As he ran he cried out for news of thehotel, and shouted answers smote against him like blows: "Down--gonedown! Collapsed. Everybody in the lower floors dead!" And he rushed on, burst his way through groups, shot past others flying to the scene, flungobstructing figures from his path. 

"Mad, " someone cried, thrown to the wall by a sweep of his arm, "mad andrunning amuck. "

They would have held him, a desperate thing, clawing and tearing his waythrough the crowd, but that suddenly, with a strangled cry, he came to astop. Over the shoulders of a group of men he saw a girl's head, and hisshout of "Pancha!" made them fall back. He gathered her in his arms, strained her against him, in the emotion of that supreme moment liftinghis face to the sky. It was a face that those who saw it never forgot. 

The men dispersed, were absorbed into the heaving tumult, running, squeezing, jamming here, thinning there, falling back before desperatesearchers calling out names that would never be answered, thronging inthe wake of women shrieking for their children. Police came battlingtheir way through, forcing the people back. Swept against a fence Garlandcould at first only hold her, mutter over her, want to know that she wasunhurt. She gave him broken answers; she had run up instead of down--thatwas how she was there. The horror of it came back in a sickeningrealization, and she shook, clinging to him, only his arm keeping herfrom falling. A man had thrown his coat about her, and Garland pulled itover her, then, looking down, saw her feet, bare and scratched inpointed, high-heeled slippers. The sight of them, incongruous remindersof the intimate aspects of life, brought him down to the moment and herplace in it. 

"Come on, " he said. "Let's get out of this. You want to get something on. Can you walk? Not far, only a few blocks. "

She could do anything, she said, now that she knew he was safe, and, herfingers in the bend of his arm, he pulled her after him through thepress. Gaining clearer spaces, they ran, side by side, their facescuriously alike, stamped by the same exalted expression as they frontedthe rising sun. 

She heard him say something about taking her away, having a horse andcart. She made no answer; with his presence all sensations butthankfulness seemed to have died in her. And then, upon her temporarypeace, came thronging strange and dreadful impressions, waking her up, telling her the world had claims beyond the circle of her ownconsciousness. She caught them as she ran--a shifting series of sinisterpictures: a house down in a tumbled heap of brick and stone, a sick womanon a couch on the sidewalk, a family dragging furniture through a blockeddoorway, pillars, window ledges, cornices scattered along the road. Overall, delicately pervasive, adding a last ominous suggestion, was afaint, acrid odor of burning wood. 

"Fire!" she said. "I can smell it. "

"Oh, there'll be fires. That's bound to come. "

"Where are we going?" she panted. 

"Right round here--the place where I was stayin'. There's a widder womankeeps it, Mrs. Meeker. She's got a horse and cart that'll get you out ofthis. I guess all the car lines is bust, and I guess we'll have to moveout quick. Look!"

He pointed over the roofs to where glassy films of smoke rose against themorning sky. 

"Everyone of 'em's a fire and the wind's fresh. I hope to God this shakeup ain't done any harm to the mains. "

They had reached Mrs. Meeker's gate. He swung it open and she followedhim across the garden to where a worn, grassy path, once a carriagedrive, led past the house to the back yard. Here stood Mrs. Meeker, ahatchet in her hand, trying to pry open the stable door. 

"Oh, Lord!" she cried, turning at his step, "I'm glad you've come back. Every other soul in the place has run off, and I can't get the stabledoor open. "

Her glance here caught Pancha, her nightgown showing below theman's overcoat. 

"Who's she?" she asked, a gleam of curiosity breaking through the largerurgencies. 

"My daughter. She lives right round here. I run for her as soon as I feltthe first quake. You got to take her along in the cart, and will you giveher some clothes?"

"Sure, " said Mrs. Meeker, and the flicker of curiosity extinguished, shereturned to the jammed door that shut her out from the means of flight. "Upstairs in my room. Anything you want. " Then to Garland, who had movedto her assistance, "I'm goin' to get out of here--go uptown to mycousin's. But I wouldn't leave Prince, not if the whole city was down inthe dust. "

Prince was Mrs. Meeker's horse, which, hearing its name, whinniedplaintively from the stable. Pancha disappeared into the house, and theman and woman attacked the door with the hatchet and a poker. As theyworked she panted out disjointed bits of information:

"There's a man just come in here tellin' me there's fires, a lot of 'em, all started together. And he says there's houses down over on Minna andTehama streets and people under them. Did you know the back wall's out ofthat new hotel? Fell clear across the court. I saw it go from myroom--just a smash and a cloud of dust. "

"Umph, " grunted the man. "Anybody hurt?"

"I don't think so, but I don't know. I went out in front first off andsaw the people pourin' out of it into the street--a whole gang in theirnightgowns. "

A soldier appeared walking smartly up the carriage drive, sweeping theyard with a glance of sharp command. 

"Say. What are you fooling round that stable for?"

Mrs. Meeker, poker in hand, was on the defensive. 

"I'm gettin' a horse out--my horse. "

"Well, you want to be quick about it. You got to clear out of here. Anybody in the house?"

"No. What are you puttin' us out for?"

"Fire. You don't want to lose any time. We've orders to get the people onthe move. I just been in that hotel next door and rooted out the last of'em--running round packing their duds as if they'd hours to waste. Hadto threaten some of 'em with the bayonet. Get busy now and get out. "

He turned and walked off, meeting Pancha as she came from the house. Askirt and blouse of Mrs. Meeker's hung loose on her lithe thinness, theiramplitude confined about her middle by a black crochet shawl which shehad crossed over her chest and tied in the back. 

"A lot of that big building's down, " she cried, as she ran up. "I couldsee it from the window, all scattered across the open space behind it. "

Engrossed in their task neither answered her, and she moved round thecorner of the stable to better see the debris of the fallen wall. Standing thus, a voice dropped on her from a window in the house thatrose beyond Mrs. Meeker's back fence. 

"Do you know if all the people are out of that hotel?"

She looked up; standing in a third story window was a young man in hisshirt sleeves. He appeared to have been occupied in tying his cravat, hishands still holding the ends of it. His face was keen and fresh, and wasone of the first faces she had seen that morning that had retained itscolor and a look of lively intelligence. 

"I don't know, " she answered. "I've only just got here. Why?"

"Because it looks to me as if there was someone in one of therooms--someone on the floor. "

The stable door gave with a wrench and swung open. Garland jerked it wideand stepped back to where he could command the man in the window. 

"What's that about someone in the hotel?" he said. 

The young man leaned over the sill and completed the tying of his cravat. 

"I can see from here right into one of those rooms, and I'm pretty surethere's a person lying on the floor--dead maybe. The electric lightfixture's down and may have got them. "

Garland turned to Mrs. Meeker:

"You get out Prince and put him in the cart. " Then to the man in thewindow: "I'll go in and see. A soldier's just been here who says they'vecleaned the place out. There's maybe somebody hurt that they ain't seen. "

"Hold on a minute and I'll go with you, " called the other. "I'm a doctorand I might come in handy. I'll be there in a jiff. "

He vanished from the window, and before Prince was backed into theshafts, walked up the carriage drive, neatly clad, cool and alert, hisdoctor's bag in his hand. 

"I was just looking at the place as I dressed. Queer sight--looks like adoll's house. Bedding flung back over the footboards, the way they'dthrown it when they jumped. Clothes neatly folded over the chairs. Andthen in that third-story room I saw something long and solid-looking onthe floor. Seems to be tangled up in the coverlets. The electric lightthing's sprinkled all over it. That's what makes me pretty sure--hit 'emas they made a break. Come on. "

He and Garland made off as Pancha and Mrs. Meeker set to work on theharnessing of Prince. 

The soldiers had done their work. The hotel was empty--a congeries ofrooms left in wild disorder, opened trunks in the passages, clothestossed and trampled on the floors. As the men ran up the stairs, itswalls gave back the sound of their feet like a place long deserted andabandoned to decay. The recurring shocks that shook its dislocated framesent plaster down, and called forth creaking protests from the wrenchedgirders. The rear was flooded with light, streaming in where the wallhad been, and through open doors they saw the houses opposite filling inthe background like the drop scene at a theater. 

The third floor had suffered more than those below, and they made theirway down a hall where mortar lay heaped over the wreckage of glass, pictures and chairs. The bedroom that was their goal was tragic in itssigns of intimate habitation strewn and dust-covered, as if years hadpassed since they had been set forth by an arranging feminine hand. Theplace looked as untenanted as a tomb. Anyone glancing over its blurredruin, no voice responding to a summons, might have missed the figure thatlay concealed by the bed and partly enwrapped in its coverings. 

The doctor, kneeling beside it, pushed them off and swept away the litterof glass and metal that had evidently fallen from the ceiling and struckthe woman down. She was lying on her face, one hand still gripping theclothes, a pink wrapper twisted about her, her blonde hair stained withthe ooze of blood from a wound in her head. He felt of her pulse andheart and twitching up her eyelids looked into her set and lifeless eyes. 

"Is she dead?" Garland asked. 

"No, " He snapped his bag open with businesslike briskness. "Concussion. Got a glancing blow from the light fixture. Seems as if she'd been tryingto wrap herself up in the bedclothes and got in the worst place shecould--just under it. "

"Can you do anything for her?"

"Not much. Rest and quiet is what she ought to have, and I don't see howshe's going to get it the way things are now. "

"We got a cart. We can take her along with us. "

"Good work. I'll fix her up as well as I can and turn her over to you. "He had taken scissors from his bag and with deft speed began to cut awaythe tangled hair from the torn flesh. "I'll put in a stitch or two andbind her up. Looks like a person of means. " He gave a side glance at herhand, white and beringed. "You might get off the mattress while I'm doingthis. We can put her on it and carry her down. She's a big woman; must befive feet nine or ten. "

Garland dragged the mattress to the floor, while the doctor rose and madea dive for the bathroom. He emerged from it a moment later, his browcorrugated. 

"No water!" he said, as he stepped over the strewn floor to his patient. "That's a cheerful complication. "

He bent over her, engrossed in his task, every now and then, as thebuilding quivered to the earth throes, stopping to mutter in irritatedimpatience. Garland went to the window and called down to Pancha and Mrs. Meeker that they'd found a woman, alive but unconscious, and space mustbe left for her in the cart. He stood for a moment watching them as theypulled out the up-piled household goods with which Mrs. Meeker had beenfilling it. Then the doctor, snapping his bag shut and jumping to hisfeet, called him back:

"That's done. It's all I can do for her now. Come on--lend a hand. Takeher shoulders; she's a good solid weight. "

Her head was covered with bandages close and tight as a nun's coif. Theyframed a face hardly less white and set in a stony insensibility. 

"Lord, she looks like a dead one, " Garland said, as he lowered thewounded head on the mattress. 

"She's not that, but she may be unless she gets somewhere out of this. Easy now; these quakes keep getting in the way. "

They carried her down the stairs and out into the street. Here thecrowd, already moving before the fire, was thick, a dense mass, plowingforward through an atmosphere heat-dried and cinder-choked. The voices ofpolice and soldiers rose above the multiple sounds of that tide of egressurging it on. A way was made for the men with their grim load, eyestouching it sympathetically, now and then a comment: "Dead is she, poorthing?" But mostly they were too bewildered or too swamped in their owntragedy to notice any other. 

Prince and the cart were ready. From her discarded belongings Mrs. Meekerhad salvaged three treasures, which she had stowed against the dashboard, a solio portrait of her late husband, a canary in a gilt cage, and aplated silver teapot. The body of the cart was clear, and the men placedthe mattress there. The spread that covered the woman becomingdisarranged, Pancha smoothed it into neatness, pausing to look withcloser scrutiny into the marble face. It was so unlike the face she hadseen before, rosy and smiling beneath the shade of modish hats, that noglimmer of recognition came to her. Chrystie was to her, as she was tothe others, an unknown woman. 

Mrs. Meeker, even in this vital moment, knew again a stir of curiosity. 

"Who is she?" she said to the men. "Ain't you found anything up there totell us where she belongs?"

The doctor's voice crackled like pistol shots:

"Good God, woman, we've not got time to find out who people _are_. Takeher along--get a move on. It's getting d----d hot here. "

It was; the heat of the growing conflagration was scorching on theirfaces, the cinders falling like rain. 

"Get up there, Mrs. Meeker, " Garland commanded; "on the front seat. Youdrive and Pancha and I'll walk alongside. "

The woman climbed up. The doctor, turning to go, gave his last orders:

"Try and get her out of this--uptown--where there's air and room. Keepher as quiet as you can. You'll run up against doctors who'll help. Sorry I can't go along with you, but there'll be work for my kind allover the city today, and I got a girl across toward North Beach that Iwant to see after. "

He was off down the carriage drive almost colliding with a soldier, whocame up on the run, a bayoneted musket in his hand, his face a blackenedmask, streaming with sweat. At the sight of the cart he broke into anangry roar:

"What are you standing round for? Do you want to be burnt? Get out. Don'tyou know the fire's coming? _Get out. "_

They moved out and joined the vast procession of a city in exodus. 

For months afterward Pancha dreamed of that day--woke at night to a senseof toiling, onward effort, a struggling slow progress, accomplished amida sea of faces all turned one way. The dream vision was not moreprodigiously improbable than the waking fact--life, comfortable andsecure, suddenly stripped of its garnishings, cut down to a singleobsessing issue, narrowed to the point where the mind held but onedesire--to be safe. 

Before the advancing wall of flame the Mission was pouring out, retreating like an army in defeat. Every avenue was congested with themoving multitude, small streets emptying into larger ones, housesejecting their inmates. At each corner the tide was swollen by newstreams, rolling into the wider current, swaying to adjustment, thenpressing on. Looking forward Pancha could see the ranks dark to the limitof her vision; looking back, the faces, smoke-blackened, sweat-streaked, marked with fierce tension, with fear, with dogged endurance, with coolcourage, with blank incomprehension. The hot breath of the fire sweptabout them, the sound of its triumphant march was in their ears, abackward glance showed its first high flame crests. Soldiers drove themon, shouted at them, thrust stupefied figures in amongst them, pushedothers, dazedly cowering in their homes, out through doors andground-floor windows. At intervals the earth stirred and heaved, and thenwith a simultaneous cry, rising in one long wail of terror, they jammedtogether in the middle of the street, so close-packed a man could havewalked on their heads. 

To make way through them Garland was forced to lead the horse. Womenclung to the shafts and trailed at the tailboard; the cart stopped by aninflux of traffic, men stood on the hubs of the wheels staring back atthe swelling smoke clouds. Mutual experiences flashed back and forth, someone's death dully recounted, a miraculous escape, tales of fallingchimneys and desperate chances boldly taken. Some were bent under heavyloads, which they cast down despairingly by the way; some carriednothing. Those who had had time and clearness of head had packed babycarriages edge full of their dearest treasures; others pulled clothesbaskets after them into which anything their hand had lighted on had beenhurled pell-mell. There were sick dragged on sofas, wounded upheld bythe arms of good Samaritans, old people in barrows, in children's carts, sometimes carried in a "chair" made by the linked hands of two men. 

And everywhere trunks, their monotonous scraping rising above the shuffleof the myriad feet. Men pulled them by ropes taut about their chests, bythe handles, pushed them from behind. Then as the day progressed and thesmoke wall threw out long wings to the right and left, they began toleave them. The sidewalk was littered with them, they stood square in thepath, tilted over into the gutter, end up against the fence. Otherpossessions were dropped beside them, pictures, sewing machines, furs, china ornaments, pieces of furniture, clocks, even the packed babycarriages and the clothes baskets. Only two things the houselessthousands refused to leave--their children and their pets. It seemed toPancha there was not a family that did not lead a dog, or carry a cat, ora bird in a cage. 

By midday the cart had made an uptown plaza, and there come to a halt forrest. The grass was covered thick with people, stretched beside theirshorn belongings, many asleep as they had dropped. A few of them hadbrought food; others, with money, went out to buy what they could at thenearby shops, already depleted of their stores. All but the children werevery still, looking at the flames that licked along the sky line. Theyhad heard now the story of the broken mains, and somberly, without lamentor rebellion, recognized the full extent of the calamity. 

A young girl, standing on a wall, a line of pails beside her, offeredcupfuls of water to those who drooped or fainted. Thirsty hoards besiegedher, and Pancha, edging in among them, made her demand, not for herself, but for a sick woman. The girl dipped a small cut-glass pitcher in one ofthe pails and handed it to her. 

"That's a double supply, " she said. "But you look as if you needed somefor yourself. We've a little water running in our house, and I'm going tostand here and dole it out till the fire comes. They say that'll be in afew hours, so don't bring back the pitcher. There's only my mother andmyself, and we can't carry anything away. "

Pancha squeezed out with her treasure, and going to the cart climbed intothe front, sliding over the seat to a space at the head of the mattress. She bent over the still figure, looking into the face. Its youth andcomeliness smote her, seemed to knock at her heart and soften somethingthere that had been hard. An uprush of intense feeling, pity for thisblighted creature, this maimed and helpless thing, rescued by chance froma horrible death, rose and flooded her. She moistened the temples and drylips, lifted the bound head to her lap, striving for some expression ofher desire to heal, to care for, to restore to life the broken sisterthat fate had cast into her hands. Mrs. Meeker came and peered over theside of the cart, shaking her head dubiously. 

"Looks like to me she'd never open her eyes again. "

Pancha was pierced with an angry resentment. 

"Don't say that. She's going to get well. I'm going to make her. "

"I hope you can, " said the elder woman. "Poor thing, what a time she musthave had! Your pa says it seemed as if there was no one there with her. I'd like to know who she is. "

"She's somebody rich. Look at her hands. "

She touched, with a caressing lightness, Chrystie's hand, milk-white, satin-fine, a diamond and sapphire ring on one finger. 

Mrs. Meeker nodded. 

"Oh, yes, she's no poor girl. Anyone can see that. You'd get it from thewrapper, let alone the rings. I've been wondering if maybe she wasn'tstraight. "

"She is. I know it. "

"How could you know that?"

"By her face. "

Mrs. Meeker considered it, and murmured:

"I guess you're right. It has got an innocent look. It'll be up to you, whether she lives or dies, to find out who she is and if she's got anyrelations. "

"Oh, that'll be all right, " said Pancha confidently, "I'm going to takecare of her and cure her, and when she's good and ready she'll tell me. "

They moved on for quieter surroundings and to find a doctor. This was ahopeless quest. Every house that bore a sign was tried, and at each onethe answer was the same: the doctor was out; went right after the quaketo be back no one knew when. Some were at the Mechanics' Pavilion, where the injured had been gathered, and which had to be vacated laterin the day; others at work in the hospitals being cleared before thefire's advance. 

Late in the afternoon Mrs. Meeker left them to go to her cousin's, whohad a cottage up beyond Van Ness Avenue. Prince and the cart she gaveover to them; they'd need it to get the woman away out of all this noiseand excitement. Tears were in her eyes as she bade farewell to the oldhorse, giving Garland an address that would find her later--"unless itgoes with the rest of the town"--she added resignedly. In the firstshadowing of twilight, illumined with the fire's high glow, they watchedher trudge off, the bird cage in one hand, the portrait in the other, theteapot tucked under her arm. 

It was night when they came to a final halt--a night horribly bright, thesky a blazing splendor defying the darkness. The place was an open spaceon the first rise of the Mission Hills. There were houses about, hereand there ascending the slope in an abortive attempt at a street which, halfway up, abandoned the effort and lapsed into a sprinkling ofone-story cottages. Above them, on the naked hillside, the first wave ofrefugees had broken and scattered. Under the fiery radiance they sat, dumb with fatigue, some sleeping curled up among their bundles, someclustered about little cores of fire over which they cooked food broughtout to them from the houses. A large tree stretched its limbs over aplateau in the hill's flank and here the cart was brought to a stop. Prince, loosed from the shafts, cropped a supper from the grass, and theunknown woman lay on her mattress under the red-laced shade. 

A girl from a cottage down the slope brought them coffee, bread andfruit, and sitting side by side they ate, looking out over the sea ofroofs to where the ragged flame tongues leaped and dropped, and thesmoke mountains rolled sullenly over the faint, obscured stars. Theyspoke little, aware for the first time of a great exhaustion, hearingstrangely the sounds of a life that went on as if unchanged anduninterrupted--the clinking of china, the fitful cries of childrensinking to sleep, the barking of dogs, a voice crooning a song, andlaughter, low-voiced and sweet. 

Presently they drew closer together and began to talk; at first ofimmediate interests--food to be procured, the injured woman, how to carefor her, find her shelter, discover who she was. Then of themselves--howthe quake had come to each, that mad, upward rush of Pancha's, Garland'srace along the street. That done, she suddenly dropped down and lyingwith her head against his knee, her face turned from the firelight, shetold him how Boyé Mayer had come to her in the dawn, and how he layburied in the ruins of the Vallejo Hotel. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE SEARCH

There was no interchange of vows, no whispered assurances and shyconfessions, between Lorry and Mark. After that sheltering enfoldment inhis arms, she drew back, her hands on his shoulders, looking into hisface with eyes that showed no consciousness of a lover's first kiss. Fora space their glances held, deep-buried each in each, saying what theirlips had no words for, pledging them one to the other, making the pactthat only death should break. Then her hands slid down and, one caught inhis, they moved across the room. 

During the first moments exaltation lifted her above her troubles. Hislonged-for presence, the feel of his hand round hers, made her forget therest, gave her a temporary respite. Only half heeding, she heard him tellhow her summons had come, how, with two other men who had families in thecity, he had chartered an engine, made part of the journey in that, thenin a motor, given them by a farmer, reached Oakland, and there hired atug which had landed him an hour before at the Italian's wharf. 

For himself he had found her, after a day of agonized apprehension, at atime when his hopes were dwindling. To know her safe, to feel her handinside his own, was enough. All she told him then was that she had comeback to the house for Aunt Ellen and Chrystie, and found they were gone. But they might have left a letter, some written message to tell her wherethey were. With those words her anxieties came to life again, her steplost its lingering slowness, her face its rapt tranquillity. 

Dropping his hand, she started on a search, through slanting doorways, bychoked passages, across the illumined spaciousness of the wide, stillrooms. Nothing was there, and she turned to the stairs, running up, he ather heels, two shadows flitting through the red-shot gloom. The upperfloor, more damaged than the lower, was swept with the sinister luster, shooting in above the trees, revealing perspectives of ruin. Every windowwas broken, and the heat and the smell of burning poured in, the drift ofcinders black along the floors. 

She darted ahead into her own room, going to the bureau, sending alightning look over it. Standing in the doorway he saw her start, wheelabout to glance at the bed, the chair. A pile of dresses lay in a corner, the closet door was open. 

"Someone's been here, " she said. "The diamond aigrette, the jewelbox--all my things are gone. Even the dress I wore last night--it was onthe bed. They've all been taken. "

He came in and took her arm, drawing her away. 

"Everything of value's gone, " he said quietly. "I went all through thehouse before you came and saw it: the silver downstairs; even a lot ofthe pictures are cut out of their frames. Looters have been here, andthey've made a clean sweep. I hoped you wouldn't see it. Come, let's go. "

She lingered, moving the ornaments about on the bureau, still hunting forthe letter, and muttering low to herself, "It doesn't matter. Those things don't matter"--then in a voice suddenlytremulous--"they've left no letter. They've left nothing to tell me ifChrystie's back and where they've gone to. "

His hand on her arm drew her toward the door. 

"Lorry, dear, there's no good doing this. They were probably put out, hadto go in a hurry, hadn't time to do any thinking. When I came in herethere was a soldier patrolling along the street. He may have been therewhen they left; and if he was he may know something about them. "

She caught at the hope, was all tingling life again, making forthe stairs. 

"Of course. I saw him, too, and I dodged behind him. If he was herethen he'd know. They might even have left a message with him. Oh, there he is!"

The arch of the hall door framed the soldier's figure, standing on thetop of the street steps, a gold-touched statue lifted above the surgingprocession of heads. With a swooping rush she was at his side. 

"Where are the people who were in this house?" she gasped. 

The man started and wheeled on her, saw Burrage behind her, and lookedfrom one to the other, surprised. 

"How'd you get in there?" he demanded. "That house was cleared out thisafternoon. "

"Never mind that, " said Mark. "We're leaving it now. This lady's lookingfor her family that she left here earlier in the day. "

"Well, I got 'em off--at least I got the only one here, an old lady. Shewas sittin' there on the grass where you see the chairs. We had orders toput out everyone along this block, and seem' she was old and upset Icommandeered an express wagon that was passin' and made the driver takeher along. "

"Only _one_ lady?" Lorry's voice was husky. 

"Yes, miss, only one. I asked her if there was anybody in the house, andshe said no, she was alone. There was a Chinaman with her that helped mepack her in comfortable--a smart, handy old chap. I don't know where hewent; I didn't see him again. "

A heart-piercing sound of suffering burst from the girl, and her facesank into her hands. The soldier eyed her sympathetically. 

"I'm sorry, lady, I can't tell you where she's gone. But, believe me, itwas no picnic gettin' the people started--some of 'em wantin' to stay, and others of 'em wantin' to take all the furniture along. We didn't havetime to ask questions. But you'll happen on her all right. She's safeuptown with friends. "

Lorry made no answer, and Mark led her down the steps. He thought heremotion the expression of overwrought nerves, and consoled her withassurances of a speedy finding of Aunt Ellen. She dropped her hands, lifted to his a face that startled him, and cried from the depths of adespair he had yet to understand. 

"It's Chrystie, it's Chrystie! She's gone, she's lost!"

Then, pressed close to him, two units absorbed into the moving mass, shetold him the story of Chrystie's disappearance. 

His heart sank as he listened. Disagreeing in words, he saw the truth ofher contention that if Chrystie had been out of town she would have beenable to get word to them and would have done it. It looked as if the girlwas in the city, hidden somewhere by Mayer. Listening to Lorry's accountof the interview in the Argonaut Hotel, he disbelieved what the man hadsaid, rejected her theory of his innocence. Chrystie nerved to a bolddeception, the charges in the anonymous letter, all stood to him forsigns of Mayer's guilt. He told her none of this, tried to cheer andreassure her, but he saw with a dark dread what might have happened. Anhour before he had skirted the edges of the fire, seen the hotel districtburning, heard of fallen buildings. Chrystie could have been therekeeping a tryst with Mayer. He let his thoughts go no further, stoppedthem in their race toward a tragedy that would shatter the girl besidehim as the city had been shattered. 

As they walked her eye ranged over the throng, shot its strained inquiryalong the swaying sea of bodies. Chrystie might be among them, might evennow be somewhere in this endless army. A woman's figure, caught through abreak in the ranks, called her to a running chase; a girl's face, glimpsed over her shoulder, brought her to a standstill, pitifullyexpectant. He tried to get her to Mrs. Kirkham's, but was met with arefusal he saw there was no use combating. Early night found them in aplaza on a hilltop, moving from group to group. 

He had a memory of her never to be forgotten, walking ahead of him, copper-bright, as she fronted the blazing light, black against it, bending to look at a half-hidden face, kneeling beside a covered shape, outstretched in a stupor of sleep. The night had reached its middlehours, the dense stillness of universal repose held the crowded spot, when she finally sank in a helpless exhaustion and slept at his feet. Hecould do nothing but cover her with his coat, hold vigil over her, moveso that his body was a shield to keep the glare from her face. He watchedher till the day came, and the noises of the waking life around themcalled her back to the consciousness of her anxiety. 

The loss of relatives and friends was one of the following features ofthe great disaster. With every means of communication cut off, with agreat area flaming, impossible to cross, enormous to circle, with theexodus in some places so hurried no time was left for plans or thesending of messages, with the spread of the fire so rapid no one knewwhere the houseless thousands would end their march, families werescattered, individuals lost track of. Groups that at dawn had been acompact whole, an hour later had broken, been dispersed, membersvanished, disappeared in the inconceivable chaos. To those who sufferedthis added horror the earthquake remains less a national calamity thanthe memory of a time when they knew an anguish beyond their dreams ofwhat pain could be. 

So it was with Lorry. The wide, encompassing distress touched her no morethan the storm does one sick unto death. The growing demolition, spreadout under her eyes roused no responsive interest. It was like a storysomeone was trying to tell her when she was writhing in torment, anightmare coming in flashes of recollection through a day full of real, poignant terrors. 

For two days she and Mark searched. There were periods when she soughtthe shelter of Mrs. Kirkham's flat, dropped on a bed and slept till thedrained reservoir of her strength was refilled, then was up and outagain. Mark and the old lady had no power to stay her. He went with her, and Mrs. Kirkham kept a fire in the little oven of bricks in the gutterso that food might be ready when they came back. Returning from theirfruitless wanderings, they found the old lady seated in a rocking-chairon the sidewalk, a parasol over her head to keep the cinders off, thecoffeepot on the curb and the brick oven hot and ready. 

It was Mrs. Kirkham who found Aunt Ellen--safe with friends near thePresidio. Lorry would not go to her, unable to bear her questions. So, Mrs. Kirkham, who had not walked more than three blocks for years, toiled up there, sinking on doorsteps to get back her wind, helping whereshe could--a baby carried, a woman told to come round to the flat and get"a bite of dinner. " She quieted Aunt Ellen, explained that Lorry was withher, said nothing of Chrystie, and toiled home, dropping with groans intoher chair by the gutter. When she had got her breath she built up thefire and brewed a fragrant potful of coffee, which she offered to theworn and weary outcasts as they plodded past. 

There was not a plaza or square in that part of the city to which Lorryand Mark did not go. They hunted among the countless hoards that spreadover the lawns in Golden Gate Park, and covered the hillsides of thePresidio. They went through the temporary hospitals--wards given to thesick and injured in the military barracks, tent villages on the paradeground. They saw strange sights, terrible sights; birth and death underthe trees in the open; saw a heroism, undaunted and undismayed; saw menand women, ruined and homeless, offering aid, succoring distress, gallant, selfless, forever memorable. 

Night came upon them in these teeming camping grounds. Along the road'sedges the lights of tiny fires--allowed for cooking--broke out in a lineof jeweled sparks. Women bent over them; men lighted their pipes and layor squatted round these rude hearths, all that they had of home. Thesmell of supper rose appetizingly, coffee simmering, bacon frying. Callswent back and forth for that most valued of possessions, a can opener. There was laughter, jokes passed over exchanges of food, an excess of teahere swapped for a loaf of bread there, a bottle of Zinfandel for a boxof sardines. It was like a great, democratic picnic to which everybodyhad been invited--the rich, the poor, the foreign elements, white, blackand yellow, the old and the young, the good and bad, virtue from PacificAvenue, vice from Dupont Street, the prominent citizen and the derelictfrom the Barbary Coast. 

The fire flung its banners across the sky, a vast lighting up for them, under which they went about the business of living. At intervals, boomingthrough the sounds of their habitation, came the dynamite explosionsblowing up the city in blocks. When the muffled roar was over, thegathering quiet was pierced by the thin, high notes of gramophones. Fromthe shadow of trees Caruso's voice rose in the swaggering lilt of "_LaDonna e Mobile_, " to be answered by Melba's, crystal-sweet, from amachine stored in a crowded cart. There were ragtime melodies, andsomeone had a record of "Marching Through Georgia" that always drew forthapplause. Then, as the night advanced, a gradual hush fell, a slowsinking down into silence, broken by a child's querulous cry, a groan ofpain, the smothered mutterings of a dreamer. Like the slain on abattlefield, they lay on the roadside, dotted over the slopes, thick asfallen leaves under the trees, their faces buried in arms or wrappingsagainst the fall of cinders and the hot glare. 

In all these places Lorry and Mark sent out that call for the lost whichpark and reservation soon grew to know and echo. Standing on a rise ofground Mark would cry with the full force of his lungs, "Is ChrystieAlston there?" The shout spread like a ring on water, and at the limitsof its carrying power, was taken up and repeated. They could hear itfainter in a strange voice--"Is Chrystie Alston there?"--then fainterstill as voice after voice took it up, sent it on, threw it like a ballfrom hand to hand, till, a winged question, it had traversed the place. But there was no answer, no jubilant response to be relayed back, noChrystie running toward them with welcoming face. 

Late on the second night he induced her to go back to Mrs. Kirkham's. Shewas heavy on his arm, stumbling as she walked, not answering his attemptsat cheer. He delivered her over to the old lady, who had to help her tobed, then sat and waited in the dining room. No lights were allowed inany house, and this room was chosen as the place of their night counselsbecause of the illumination that came in through the open hole of thefireplace, wrenched out when the chimney fell. When Mrs. Kirkham cameback he and she exchanged a somber look, and the old lady voiced boththeir thoughts:

"She can't stand this. She can't go on. She's hardly able to move now. What shall we do?"

Their consultation brought them nowhere. As things stood there was noway of instituting a more extended search. The police could be of noassistance, overwhelmed with their labors; individuals who might havehelped were lost in the mêlée; money was as useless as strings ofcowrie shells. 

At dawn Mrs. Kirkham stole away to come back presently saying the girlwas sleeping. 

"She looks like the dead, " she whispered. "She hasn't strength enough togo out again. I can keep her here now. "

Mark got up. 

"Then I'll go; it's what I've been waiting for. Without her I can cover abig area; move quick. I want to try the other side of town. In my opinionMayer had Chrystie somewhere. She was prepared for a journey--the trunkand the money show that--and the journey was to be with him. If he gother off we'll hear from her in a day or two. If he didn't she's in thecity, and it's just possible she drifted or was caught in the Missioncrowd. Anyway, I'm going to try that section. Tell Lorry I've gone there. Keep up her hope, and for heaven's sake try to keep her quiet. I'll beback by evening. "

So he went forth. It seemed a blind errand--to find a woman gone withoutleaving a trace, in a city where two hundred thousand people werehomeless and wandering. But it was a time when the common sense of everyday was overleaped, when men attempted and achieved beyond the limits ofreason and probability. 

Half an hour after he had left the flat he met with a piece of luck thatgave his spirit a brace. On the steps of a large house, deserted for twodays, he came upon one of his companion clerks. This youth, son of therich, had procured a horse and delivery wagon and had come back to carryaway silver and valuables left piled in the front hall. Also he had abicycle, an article just then of inestimable value, and hearing Mark'sintention of crossing the city, loaned it to him. 

People who live in the Mission are still wont, when the great quake isspoken of, to remember the man on the bicycle. So many of them saw him, so many of them were stopped and questioned by him. Looking for a lady, he told them, and that he looked far and wide they could testify. He wasseen close to the fire line, up along the streets that stretched backfrom it, in among the crowds camped on the vacant lots, through theplazas and the tents that were starting up like mushrooms in every clearspace. In the little shack where the _Despatch_ was getting out itsfirst paper, full of advertisements for the lost and offers of shelterto the outcast, he turned up at midday. He saw Crowder there, told himthe situation, and left with him an advertisement "for any news ofChrystie Alston. "

Late afternoon saw him back on the edges of the Mission Hills. The greathuman wave here had reached the limit of its wash. The throng wasthinner, dwindling to isolated groups. Wheeling his bicycle he threaded away among them, looking, scrutinizing, asking his questions. But no onehad any comfort for him, heads were shaken, hands uplifted and dropped insilent sign of ignorance. 

He followed a road that ascended by houses, steps and porches crowdedwith refugees, to the higher slopes where the buildings were small andfar apart. The road shriveled to a dusty track, and leaning his bicycleagainst the fence he sat down. He felt an exhaustion, bodily andspiritual, and propping his elbows on his knees, let his forehead sink onhis hands. For a space he thought of nothing but Lorry waiting for newsand his return to her that night. 

A woman's voice, coming from the hill above roused him, "Say, mister, have you got a bicycle?"

He started and turning saw a girl running down the slope toward him. Shecame with a breathless speed--a grotesque figure, thin and dark, loosecotton garments eddying back from her body, her feet in beaded, high-heeled slippers sure and light among the rolling stones. 

"Yes, " he said, rising, "I've got a bicycle. "

She came on, panting, her hair in the swiftness of her progress blown outin a black mist from her brow. Her face, dirty and smoke-smeared, struckhim as vaguely familiar. 

"I saw you from the barn up there, " she jerked her hand backward to abarn on the summit, "and I just made a dash down to catch you. " Shelanded against the fence with a violent jolt. "This morning a man who'dcome up from below told me the _Despatch_ was going to be published withadvertisements in it. "

"It is, " he said. "By tomorrow probably. "

"Are you going down there again?" She swept the city with a grimed, brown hand. 

"I'm going down sometime, not right now. "

"Any time'll do--only the sooner the better. I've got an advertisement toput in. Will you take it?"

He nodded. He would be able to do it tomorrow. 

She smiled, and with the flash of her teeth and something of gaminroguishness in her expression, the feeling that he had seen herbefore--knew her--grew stronger. He eyed her, puzzled, and seeing thelook, she grinned in gay amusement. 

"I guess you know _me_, a good many people do. But my make-up'snew--dirt. Water's too valuable to use for washing. "

He was not quite sure yet, and his expression showed it. That made herlaugh, a mischievous note. 

"Ain't you ever been to the Albion, young man?"

"Oh!" he breathed. "Why, of course--Pancha Lopez!"

"Come on then, " she cried; "now we're introduced. Come up while Iwrite the ad. "

She drew away from the fence while he wheeled his bicycle in through abreak in the pickets. As she moved along the path in front of him, shecalled back:

"We're up here in the barn, our castle on the hill. It mayn't look muchfrom the outside, but it's roomy and the view's fine. Better than beingcrowded into the houses with the people sleeping on the floors. They'dhave taken us in, any of 'em, but we chose the barn--quieter and moreair. My pa's with me. " She turned and threw a challenging glance at him. "You didn't know I had a pa? Well, I have and a good one. " Then sheraised her voice and called: "Pa, hello! I've corralled a man who'lltake that ad. "

From the open door of the barn a man of burly figure appeared. He noddedto Mark, bluffly friendly. 

"That's good. We didn't know how we was to get in from this far, and webin lookin' out for someone. " Then turning to the girl, "You get busy?honey, and write it. We don't want to waste this young feller's time. "

They entered the barn, a wide, shadowy place, cool and quiet, with haypiled in the back. Depressions in it showed where they had been sleeping, a horse blanket folded neatly beside each nest. To the left an open doorled into what seemed a room for tools and farm supplies. Mark could seeone corner where below a line of pegs gunny sacks, stacked and bulging, leaned against the wall. 

"Now if you'll further oblige me with a pencil and paper, " said the girl, "I'll tackle it, though writing's not my strong suit. "

He pulled out a letter--offering a clean back--and a fountain pen. Thegirl took them, then stood in dubious irresolution, looking at them withuneasy eyes. 

"I don't know as I can, " she said. "I don't know how to put it. I guessyou'd do it better. I'll tell you and you write. "

"Very well. " She handed the things back, and going to the wall heplaced the letter against it and, the pen lifted, turned to her. "Goahead, I'm ready. "

The girl, baffled and uncertain, looked for help to her father. 

"How'll I begin?"

"Tell him what it's about, " he suggested. "You give him the facts, andhe'll put 'em into shape. "

"Well, we've got a sick woman here, and we don't know who she is. Wefound her in a hotel, hit on the head, and she's not spoken much yet--notanything that'll give any clew to where she comes from or who she belongsto. That's what the ad's for. She's a lady, young, and she's tall--nearlyas tall as you. Blonde, blue eyes and golden hair, and she's got threerings--" She stopped, the words dying before the expression of the youngman's face. 

"Where is she?" he said. 

Pancha pointed to the room on the left, saw the letter drop to the flooras he turned and ran for the doorway, saw him enter and heard his loudejaculation. 

For a moment she and her father stared, open-mouthed, at one another, then she went to the door. In the room, swept with pure airs from theopen window, the light subdued by a curtain of gunny sacks, the young manwas kneeling by the side of the mattress, his hand on the sick woman's. She was looking at him intently, a slow intelligence gathering in hereyes. The ghost of a smile touched her lips, and they parted to emit inthe small voice of a child, "Marquis de Lafayette. "

CHAPTER XXXVII

HAIL AND FAREWELL

The Alstons had taken a house in San Rafael. It was a big comfortableplace with engirdling balconies whence one looked upon the blossomingbeauties of a May-time garden. Aunt Ellen thought it much too large, butwhen the settling down was accomplished, saw why Lorry had wanted so muchroom. Mrs. Kirkham was invited over from town "to stay as long as sheliked, " and now for a week there had been visitors from up country--Mrs. Burrage and Sadie. 

It made quite a houseful and Fong, with a new second boy to break in, wasexceedingly busy. He had brushed aside Lorry's suggestion that with halfthe city in ruins and nobody caring what they ate, simple meals wouldsuffice. That was all very well for other people--let them live frugallyif they liked; Fong saw the situation from another angle. Back in his oldplace, his young ladies blooming under his eye, he gave forth hiscontentment in the exercise of his talents. Gastronomic masterpieces camedaily from his hands, each one a note in his hymn of thanksgiving. 

When the fire was under control he had turned up at Mrs. Kirkham's, saying he had thought "Miss Lolly" would be there. Then he had takenLorry's jewel box from under his coat and held it out to her, answeringher surprise with a series of smiling nods. He had everything safe, downon the water front--the silver, the best glass, all the good clothes andmost of the pictures which he cut from their frames. Yes, he had movedthem after Aunt Ellen left, having packed them earlier in the day and gota friend from Chinatown who had a butcher's wagon. They had workedtogether, taken the things out through the back alley, very quiet, veryquick; the soldiers never saw them. He had driven across town to a NorthBeach wharf, hired a fishing smack, and with two Italians for crew, castoff and sailed about the bay for three days. 

"I stay on boat all time, " he said. "My business mind your stuff. I watchout, no leave dagoes, no go sleep. All locked up now. Chinamen hide him, keep him safe. I bring back when you get good house. "

When they moved to San Rafael he brought them back, a load that must havefilled the butcher's wagon to its hood. His young ladies' gratitudepleased him, but to their offers of a reward he would not listen. 

"Old Chinaman take care of my boss's house like my boss want me. Badtime, good time, ally samey. You no make earthquake--he come--my jobhelp like evly day. I no good Chinaman if I don't. I no get paid extlafor do my job. "

The girls, after fruitless efforts, had to give in. Afterward, in theirrooms when they sorted the clothes--the two beds were covered withthem--they cried and laughed over the useless finery. Fong had carriedaway only the richest and costliest--evening dresses, lace petticoats, opera wraps, furs, high-heeled slippers, nothing that could be worn aslife was now. 

"We'll have to go about in ball dresses for the rest of the summer, " saidChrystie, giggling hysterically. "How nice you'll look weeding the gardenin an ermine stole and white satin slippers. "

"We've got to wear them somewhere, " Lorry decided. 

"For one reason we've almost nothing else, and for another--and the realone--Fong mustn't know he's rescued the wrong things. I _will_ weed thegarden in white satin slippers, and I'll put on a ball dress for dinnerevery night. "

Chrystie was well again now. Drowsing on the balcony in the steamer chairand taking sun baths in the garden had restored her, if not quite to herold rosy robustness, to a pale imitation of her once glowing self. Therest of her hair had been cut off, and her shaven poll was hidden by alace cap with a fringe of false curls sewed to its edge. This was verybecoming and in sweeping draperies--some of the evening dresses made overinto tea gowns--she was an attractive figure, her charms enhanced by asoftening delicacy. 

The dark episode of her disappearance was allowed to rest in silence. Sheand Lorry had threshed it out as far as Lorry thought fit. That BoyéMayer had dropped out of sight was all Chrystie knew. Some day later shewould hear the truth, which Lorry had learned from Pancha Lopez. Lorryhad also decided that the world must never know just what _did_ happen tothe second Miss Alston. The advertisement in the _Despatch_ was withdrawnin time, and those who shared the knowledge were sworn to secrecy. Herefforts to invent a plausible explanation caused Chrystie intenseamusement. She hid it at first, was properly attentive and helpful, butto see Lorry trying to tell lies, worrying and struggling over it, wastoo much. A day came when she forgot both manners and sympathy, began totitter and then was lost. Lorry was vexed at first, looked cross, butwhen the sinner gasped out, "Oh, Lorry, I never thought I'd see _you_come to this, " couldn't help laughing herself. 

On a bright Saturday afternoon Chrystie and Sadie were sitting on thefront balcony in the shade of the Maréchal Niel rose. Mrs. Burrage andLorry had gone for a drive, later to meet Mark--who was to stay with themover Sunday--at the station. Upstairs Aunt Ellen and Mrs. Kirkham werecloseted with a dressmaker, fashioning festal attire. For that nightthere was to be a dinner, the first since the move. Beside the householdMark was coming, and Crowder was expected on a later train with PanchaLopez and her father--eight people, quite an affair. Fong had beenmarketing half the morning, and was now in the kitchen in a state oftemperamental irritation, having even swept Lorry from his presence witha commanding, "Go away, Miss Lolly. I get clazy if you wolly me now. "

Sadie and Chrystie had become very friendly. Sadie was not disinclined toadore the youngest Miss Alston, so easy to get on with, so full of funand chatter. Chrystie had fulfilled her expectations of what an heiressshould be, handsome as a picture, clothed in silken splendors, regallyaccepting her plenty, carelessly spendthrift. 

Lorry had rather disappointed her. She was not pretty, didn't seem tocare what she had on, and was so quiet. And as an engaged girl there wasnothing romantic about her, no shy glances at Mark, no surreptitious handpressures. Sadie would have set her down as dreadfully matter-of-factexcept that now and then she did such queer, unexpected things. Forexample the first afternoon they were there, she had astonished Sadie bysuddenly getting up and without a word kissing Mother on the forehead. Mother, whom you never could count on, had begun to talk about the dayswhen she was waitress in The Golden Nugget Hotel--broke into it as if itdidn't matter at all. It made Sadie get hot all over; she didn't supposethey knew, and under her eyelids looked from one girl to the other tosee how they'd take it. They didn't show anything, only seemedinterested, and Sadie was calming down when Mother started off on GeorgeAlston--how fine he used to treat her and all that. It was then thatLorry did the queer thing--not a word out of her; just got up and kissedMother and sat down. In her heart Sadie marveled at the perversity ofmen--Mark to have fallen in love with the elder when the younger sisterwas there!

She spoke about it to Mother upstairs that night, but Mother wasunsatisfactory, smiled ambiguously and said:

"I guess Mark's the smart one of _our_ family. "

In the shade of the Maréchal Niel rose the girls talked and Chrystie, hertongue unloosed by growing intimacy, told about her wild adventure. Shecould not help it; after all Sadie knew a lot already, and it hamperedconversation and the spontaneities of friendship to have to stop andthink whether one ought to say this or not say that. It completed Sadie'ssubjugation: here _was_ a romance. She breathlessly listened, in a stateof staring attention that would have made a less garrulous person thanChrystie tell secrets. When she knew all she couldn't help asking--nogirl could:

"But did you love him _really_?"

Chrystie, stretching a white hand for a branch of the rose and drawingit, blossom-weighted, to her face, answered:

"No, I thought I did at first; it was so exciting and all the girls saidhe was such a star. But I was always afraid of him. He sort ofmagnetized me--made me feel I'd be a poor-spirited chump if I didn't runaway with him. You don't want to have a man think that about you, so Isaid I would and I did go. But that night--shall I ever forget it? Itwas pure misery. "

"Do you think you _would_ have gone with him?"

"I guess so, just because I hadn't the nerve not to. I felt as if I _had_to see it through--was sort of pledged to it. Maybe I didn't want to goback on him, and maybe I was ashamed to. You can hardly call theearthquake a piece of luck, but it was for me. "

She sniffed at the roses while Sadie eyed her almost awed. Eighteen andwith this behind her! The more she knew of the youngest Miss Alston themore her respect and admiration increased. She waited expectantly for theheroine to resume, which she did after a last, luxurious inhalation ofthe rose's breath. 

"Wasn't it wonderful that the person who found me was Pancha Lopez? Ikeep thinking of it all the time. You know I was always crazy abouther, but I never thought I'd meet her. And then to finally do it theway I did!"

Sadie's comment showed a proper comprehension of this strange happening, and then she wanted to know what Pancha Lopez was like. 

"Oh, she's a priceless thing--there's nobody anywhere like her, in looksor any other way. She's different. You can't take your eyes off her, andyet she's not pretty. Remarkable people never are. "

This was a new thought to Sadie who, absorbing it slowly, ventured asafe:

"Aren't they?"

"No, it's only the second-class ones who don't amount to anything who aregood-looking. I must say it was a blow to me to hear that her real namewas Michaels. But of course actresses generally have other names, andLopez does belong to her in a sort of way. She told Lorry about it andabout her father, too. Nobody knew she had a father. "

"What's he like?"

"Oh, he's a grand old dear--rough, but he would be naturally, just aminer all his life. He took care of me as if I was a baby. "

"He won't have to be a miner any more now. "

They exchanged a glance of bright meaning, and Chrystie, drawing herselfup in the chair, spoke with solemn emphasis:

"Sadie, I've always been glad I had money, because I'd be lost withoutit. But I'm glad now for another reason--because we could do somethingfor those two. If we couldn't they'd have had to go back and begin allover again. Pancha's got some money saved up, but it'll be a long timebefore she gets it, and Lorry says it wouldn't be enough any way. Thinkof that kind old bear with his hair getting gray trudging up and down theMother Lode! If I'd thought that was to go on I'd never have had apeaceful night's sleep again. We'd have had to adopt him, and I _know_ hewouldn't have liked that. Now, thank heaven, we can make him comfortablein his own way. "

"Did he tell you what it was he wanted to do?"

"No, he wouldn't, but Lorry got hold of Pancha and wormed it all out ofher. For years he's been longing to settle down on a ranch--that was hisdream. Poor little dream! Well, it's coming true. We've got severalranches, but there's only one that counts--in Mexico. There's a small onedown in Kern that father bought ages ago for a weighmaster he had who gotconsumption. He died there--the weighmaster, I mean--and we've gone onrenting it out and the trustees having all sorts of bother with thetenants. So that's going to be Mr. Michael's. Lorry had the transfermade, or whatever you call it, yesterday in town. She's going to givehim the papers tonight. "

"It'll be the last time you'll see them for a long while, I guess. "

Chrystie, suddenly pensive, dropped back in the chair. 

"Um, it will. Before we see Pancha again it may be years. She's goingabroad to study. But she's promised to write and tell us all about howshe's getting on. And when she comes back--a real grand operasinger--won't I be in a state! I get all wrought up now thinking aboutit. If she makes her first appearance in New York I'm going on thereto see her. "

"How long will it take--getting her ready, training her andteaching her?"

"No one can tell exactly. People here who've heard her and know aboutthose things say she has such a fine voice and is so quick and cleverthat she might go on the stage over there in a year or two. She's got alot to learn of course; even the way I feel about her I can see she needsto be more educated. But no matter how long it takes she's going to befinanced--that's what they call it--till she's finished and ready. Lorry's guaranteed that. "

"Lorry's awful grateful to them, isn't she?"

"Lorry!" Chrystie's glance showed surprise at such a question. "She'sready to give them everything she has. She's not just grateful, she's_bowed down _with it. Why she advertised in all the papers for thatdoctor who saw me on the floor, and now she's found him she'd build him awhole hospital if he'd let her. Lorry's not like me. _She's_ got _deep_feelings. "

The carriage, turning in at the gate, stopped the conversation, andChrystie rose and sauntered to the top of the steps. Mother Burrage, inher new black silk mantle, bought through a catalogue, and a perfectfit, came up the path, Mark and Lorry behind her. Mark waved a greetinghand and Lorry called instructions--please tell Fong to bring outsomething cold to drink and tell Aunt Ellen and Mrs. Kirkham to comedownstairs even if they were in their wrappers--they must be worn outshut up with the dressmaker all day. It was exactly the sort of thingSadie knew she would say--and Mark only just off the train. 

The dinner that night was a brilliant success. Fong had outdone himself, the menu was a triumph, the table a shining splendor. He had insisted onsetting it--no green second boy could lay a hand on the family treasures, now almost sacred, like vessels lost from a church and miraculouslyrestored. In the center he had placed the great silver bowl given toGeorge Alston by the miners of The Silver Queen when he had retired fromthe management. Fong had been at the presentation ceremony, and valuedthe bowl above all his old boss's possessions. In the flight from thePine Street house he had trusted it to no hands but his own, and findingit hard to hold had carried it on his head. He had also elected to waiton the table--the reunion had a character of intimacy upon which nosecond boy should intrude--and to do the occasion honor had put on hislilac crepe jacket and green silk trousers. From behind the chairs helooked approvingly at the glistening spread of silver and glass, theflowered mound of the Silver Queen bowl, the ring of faces, and "MissLolly" and "Miss Clist" in the dresses he had saved. 

Clothes of any kind were at a premium, and the Misses Alstons'hospitality extended to their wardrobe. Sadie had no need to availherself of it; she had stocked hers well before coming, making a specialtrip to Sacramento for that purpose. But Pancha, who had lost everythingbut a nightgown and slippers, was scantily provided. Before dinner therehad been a withdrawal to Lorry's room, whence had issued much laughterand cries of admiration from Chrystie. Now, between Mark and Crowder, Pancha loomed radiant, duskily flushed, gleamingly scintillant, in thewhite net dress with the crystal trimmings that Lorry had worn on aneventful night. 

Yes, it was a very fine dinner. At intervals each told his neighbor so, and then told his hostess, and then told Fong. Crowder, whose customaryhaunts were burned and who was eating anything, anywhere, sighedrapturously over every succeeding course, and Mrs. Kirkham said she'dnever seen its peer "except in Virginia in the seventies. " Toward the endof it they drank toasts--to Lorry and Mark on their engagement, to Motherand Sadie as the new relations, to Pancha and Mr. Michaels as thesaviors, to Chrystie on her restoration to health, to Crowder as themutual friend, to Aunt Ellen as the ambulating chaperon, to Mrs. Kirkhamas the dispenser of hospitality and wisdom, and finally, on their feetwith raised glasses, to Fong. 

The party broke up early; there were trains and boats to catch for thosegoing back to the city. With the hour of departure a drop came in theirhigh spirits, a prevailing pensiveness in the face of farewells. Chrystiequite broke down, kissed Mr. Michaels to his great confusion, and wept inPancha's arms. Father and daughter were to go their several ways early inthe week and this was good-by. They stumbled over last phrases to Lorry, good wishes, reiterated thanks. She hushed them, hurried their adieux tothe others, herself affected but anxious to get them off; such excitementwas bad for Chrystie. As the carriage rolled away she stood on the steps, a waving hand aloft, hearing over the roll of the wheels and the talk inthe hall, Pancha's clear voice calling, "Good-by, good-by; oh, good-by!"

When she came back the others were already preparing to disperse for bed. The old ladies were tired, yawning as they exchanged good-nights andmoved, heavy-footed, for the stairs. They began to mount, their silksrustling, muttering wearily as they toiled upward. Chrystie had to gotoo, at once, and straight to bed; no reading or talking to Sadie. Sheagreed dejectedly and trailed after the ascending group, throwing sleepyfarewells over her shoulder. 

Sadie, who felt very wide-awake, was for lingering. It was only ten, andwhat with the unwonted excitement and two cups of black coffee, she didnot feel at all inclined toward sleep. She thought she would stay down alittle longer, and then her glance slipping from the file of backs fellon her brother and Lorry, side by side, their faces raised, their eyeson the retreating procession. Sadie waited a moment, then seeing theymade no move to follow it, bade them a brisk good-night and went up thestairs herself.