ant Philip had hidden it in the
palm of his hand. A flush leaped into his cheeks. A strange fire burned
in his eyes when Thorpe turned.

"I'm afraid we can't accept your hospitality," he said. "I'm tired, and
want to get to bed. In passing, however, I couldn't refrain from
dropping in to compliment you on the remarkable work your men are doing
out on the plain. It's splendid."

"They're good men," said Thorpe, quietly. "Pretty wild, but good
workers."

He followed them to the door. Outside, Philip's voice trembled when he
spoke to MacDougall.

"You go for the others, and bring them to the office, Sandy," he said.
"I said nothing to Thorpe because I have no confidence in liars, and
Thorpe is a liar. He was not out to the Gray Beaver to-day; for I saw
him when he came in--from the opposite direction. He is a liar, and he
will bear watching. Mind that, Sandy. Keep your eyes on this man
Thorpe. And keep your eyes on his gang. Hustle the others over to the
office as soon as you can."

They separated, and Philip returned to the cabin which they had left a
few minutes before. He relighted the lamp, and with a sharp gasp in his
breath held out before his eyes the object which he had taken from
Thorpe's table. He knew now why Thorpe had come from over the mountains
that night, why he was exhausted, and why he had lied. He clasped his
head between his hands, scarcely believing the evidence of his eyes. A
deeper breath, almost a moan, fell from his twisted lips. For he had
discovered that Thorpe, the gang-foreman, was Jeanne's lover. In his
hand he held the dainty handkerchief, embroidered in blue, which he had
seen in Jeanne's possession earlier that evening--crumpled and
discolored, still damp with her tears!

XX

For many minutes Philip did not move, or look from the bit of damp
fabric which he held between his fingers. His heart was chilled. He
felt sick. Each moment added to the emotion which was growing in him,
an emotion which was a composite of disgust and of anguish.
Jeanne--Thorpe! An eternity of difference seemed to lie between those
two--Jeanne, with her tender beauty, her sweet life, her idyllic
dreams, and Thorpe, the gang-driver! In his own soul he had made a
shrine for Jeanne, and from his knees he had looked up at her, filled
with the knowledge of his own unworthiness. He had worshiped her, as
Dante might have worshiped Beatrice. To him she was the culmination of
all that was sweet and lovable in