ry clouded, and he turned gloomily back.

"Maybe I better stay," he agreed.

Yet before he made a step Byrne heard a far-away honking of the wild
geese, that musical discord carrying for uncounted miles through the
windy air. The sound worked like magic on Barry. He whirled back.

"I got to go," he repeated.

And yet Byrne blocked the way. It required more courage to do that than
to do anything he had ever attempted in his life. The sweat poured out
from under his armpits as the stranger stepped near; the blood rushed
from his face as he stared into the eyes of Barry--eyes which now held
an uncanny glimmer of yellow light.

"Sir," said Byrne huskily, "you must not go! Listen! Old Cumberland is
calling to you again! Does that mean nothing? If you have some errand
out in the night, let me go for you."

"Partner," said the soft voice of Barry, "stand aside. I got no time,
I'm wanted!"

Every muscle of Randall Byrne's body was set to repulse the stranger in
any effort to pass through that door, and yet, mysteriously, against his
will, he found himself standing to one side, and saw the other slip
through the open door.

"Dan! Are ye there?" called a louder voice from the room beyond.

There was no help for it. He, himself, must go back and face Joe
Cumberland. With a lie, no doubt. He would say that Dan had stepped out
for a moment and would be back again. That might put Cumberland safely
to sleep. In the morning, to be sure, he would find out the
deception--but let every day bury its dead. Here was enough trouble for
one night. He went slowly, but steadily enough, towards the door of what
had now become a fatal room to the doctor. In that room he had seen his
dearest doctrines cremated. Out of that room he had come bearing the
ashes of his hopes in his hands. Now he must go back once more to try to
fill, with science, a gap of which science could never take cognizance.

He lingered another instant with his hand on the door; then he cast it
wide bravely enough and stepped in. Joe Cumberland was sitting up on the
edge of his couch. There was colour in the old man's face. It almost
seemed, to the incredulous eyes of Byrne, that the face was filled out a
trifle. Certainly the fire of the old cattleman's glance was less
unearthly.

"Where's Dan?" he called. "Where'd he go?"

It was no longer the deep, controlled voice of the stoic; it was the
almost whining complaint of vital weakness.

"Is there anything I can d