od forth out of the wilderness. "And
you're dead tired and nearly dead for sleep. I am sorry we can't have a
city hotel up here; but I'll get you a room where you can lie down. You
can sleep and rest for two or three hours; then we'll start back."

Gloria had been tired and sleepy half an hour ago; not now. Gratton was
playing his own hand in his own way--against her father and against Mark
King. And Gratton had a way of winning. Something had happened; some one
had telegraphed for him to come. Gloria was aquiver with excitement. She
watched Gratton while he was watching the road; he, too, was tense and
eager.

When he stopped the car she got down, not knowing just what to do or
say. He led the way to the little "hotel," and she followed. Since she
could not insist on following him about his "business," it was, perhaps,
just as well if she lay down. And, alone, thought things out. He placed
a chair for her and arranged for her room. He paid for it in advance,
saying that they would be leaving in a hurry; he registered for her.
Then Gloria was shown down a long hall and to her room. Here Gratton
left her, impatient to be away. She went to her window and stood looking
out. She heard a man call; a deep, rumbling bass voice. She saw Gratton
come about the corner of the house and start across the street. A man, a
very big man, came to meet him. They stood together talking in the
middle of the road, their voices low, their looks earnest. They went
away together. She shivered and went to her bed and sat down, her hands
tight clasped, a look of trouble in her eyes. Gratton and Swen Brodie
together----

"I don't understand." She said it to herself over and over. "I can't
understand!"

She sprang up and left the room, going in feverish haste back to the
front part of the building. The man who had given Gratton the register
followed her with his speculative eyes. She went to the door and looked
out, seeing neither the dusty road, the deserted house across the way,
nor the mountains beyond. She was groping blindly in a mental fog; she
was tired, very tired. And uncertain. Something was happening--had
happened, or was about to happen, and she did not know which way to
turn. Her father, poor old papa, was fighting hard against some kind of
money troubles. Mark King, Gratton, Brodie--figures to race through her
brain, to confuse her with their own contentions, to baffle and
bewilder. Suddenly she felt utterly alone, hopelessly, he