but that's impossible,
and there's no use in suggesting that Mr. Jernyngham should send somebody
else. Besides, I believe I'd have the best chance of picking up the right
trail. You won't mind my saying that I'm very sorry for you?"

Her eyes grew soft and her whole expression gentle. It was an attractive
face Prescott looked into.

"I value your sympathy," she said softly. "Indeed, I can't tell you what
a comfort you have been. But you will undertake this search as soon as
possible, won't you?"

"Yes," Prescott replied firmly; "you can count on that. If I've made
things easier for you, I'm very glad."

Then he turned away and hurried back to the binder.

CHAPTER X

A NEW CLUE

It was a clear, cool morning and Prescott was busily engaged throwing
sheaves into his wagon. He had finished his harvest and, in accordance
with western custom, had immediately begun the thrashing. Part of the
great field was already stripped to a belt of tall stubble, though long
ranks of stooks still stretched across the rest, and dusty men were hard
at work among them. Wagons rolled through the crackling straw--going
slowly, piled high with rustling loads; returning light, jolting wildly,
as fast as the teams could trot, for the thrashers were paid by the
bushel and would brook no delay. In the background stood their big
machine, pouring out a cloud of smoke that stretched in a gray trail
across the prairie, and filling the air with its harsh clatter.

It was a scene of strenuous activity, filled with hurriedly moving
figures, but its coloring had lost something of its former vividness. The
blue of the sky was softer, the light less strong; the varying hues of
lemon and copper and ocher had become subdued; the shadows were no longer
darkly blue but a cool restful gray. The rushing winds that had swept the
wide plain all summer had come to rest; the air was sharp and still.

The last week or two, however, had brought no change to the inmates of
the homestead. Jernyngham still brooded over his loss and worried the
police, his daughter looked to her host for comfort, and Prescott did
what he could to cheer her. Gertrude, indeed, was sensible of a rapidly
growing confidence in him and of the abandonment of many long-held ideas.
The man was not of her station: he was a working farmer, his views at
first had jarred on her; and yet the attraction he had for her was
steadily increasing. She made a feeble fight against it. In Englan