aughn," I replied. "The rest is sentiment,
perhaps. I had a pretty bad case of moons over the little Langdon girl.
But we quarreled. And it's ended now. Just as well, too, because if
she'd...."

"Russ, did you honestly care for her? The real thing, I mean?"

"I--I'm afraid so. I'm sort of hurt inside. But, hell! There's one thing
sure, a love affair might have hindered me, made me soft. I'm glad it's
over."

He said no more, but his big hand pressing on my knee told me of his
sympathy, another indication that there was nothing wanting in this
Ranger.

"The other thing concerns you," I went on, somehow reluctant now to tell
this. "You remember how I heard Wright making you out vile to Miss
Sampson? Swore you'd never come back? Well, after he had gone, when
Sally said he'd meant you'd be killed, Miss Sampson felt bad about it.
She said she ought to be glad if someone killed you, but she couldn't
be. She called you a bloody ruffian, yet she didn't want you shot.

"She said some things about the difference between your hideous
character and your splendid stature. Called you a magnificent
fellow--that was it. Well, then she choked up and confessed something to
Sally in shame and disgrace."

"Shame--disgrace?" echoed Steele, greatly interested. "What?"

"She confessed she had been taken with you--had her little dream about
you. And she hated herself for it."

Never, I thought, would I forget Vaughn Steele's eyes. It did not
matter that it was dark; I saw the fixed gleam, then the leaping,
shadowy light.

"Did she say that?" His voice was not quite steady. "Wonderful! Even if
it only lasted a minute! She might--we might--If it wasn't for this
hellish job! Russ, has it dawned on you yet, what I've got to do to
Diane Sampson?"

"Yes," I replied. "Vaughn, you haven't gone sweet on her?"

What else could I make of that terrible thing in his eyes? He did not
reply to that at all. I thought my arm would break in his clutch.

"You said you knew what I've got to do to Diane Sampson," he repeated
hoarsely.

"Yes, you've got to ruin her happiness, if not her life."

"Why? Speak out, Russ. All this comes like a blow. There for a little I
hoped you had worked out things differently from me. No hope. Ruin her
life! Why?"

I could explain this strange agitation in Steele in no other way except
that realization had brought keen suffering as incomprehensible as it
was painful. I could not tell if it came from suddenly divi