t she forbore to question.
She had heard her lover's account of his misadventure in the Alaskan
hills, but she saw no connection between the hound and that disastrous
affair. But the man's thoughts were hard at work. Presently he rose to
depart.

He bade Prudence good-bye and moved towards the door. The dog remained
where he had been standing and looked after him. At the door Robb
hesitated, then he turned and looked back.

"Poor old Bully," he said.

With a bound the dog was at his side. Then the man turned away, and,
accompanied by Alice, left the room. In the passage he paused, and
Alice saw an expression on his face she had never seen before. He was
nervous and excited, and his eyes shone in the half-light.

"Al," he said slowly, "I know that dog. _And his name is Bully_. Don't
say anything to anybody. Hervey may be able to tell me something of
those who robbed us up in the hills. But on no account must you say
anything to him; leave it to me. I shall come here again--soon.
Good-bye, little woman."

That evening as Robb Chillingwood rode back to Ainsley he thought of
many things, but chiefly he reviewed the details of that last
disastrous journey when he and Grey had traversed the snow-fields of
Alaska together.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST OF LONELY RANCH

There are moments which come in all lives when calm reflection is
powerless to influence the individual acts; when calmness, even in the
most phlegmatic natures, is impossible; when a tide of impulse sweeps
us on, giving us not even so much as a breathless, momentary pause in
which to consider the result of our headlong career. We blunder on
against every jagged obstacle, lacerated and bleeding, jolting cruelly
from point to point, whither our passions irresistibly drive us. It is
a blind, reckless journey, from which there is no escape when the tide
sets in. We see our goal ahead, and we fondly believe that because it
is ahead we must come to it. We do not consider the awful road we
travel, nor the gradual exhaustion which is overtaking us. We do not
realize that we must fall by the wayside for lack of strength, nor
even, if our strength be sufficient to carry us on to the end, do we
ask ourselves, shall we be able to draw aside out of the raging
torrent when our goal is reached? or shall we be swept on to the
yawning Beyond where, for evermore, we must continue to struggle
hopelessly to return? Once give passion unchecked sway, and who can
say wh