he first
to greet it in the keen air of the slope behind the hotel. To his
pantheistic spirit it had always seemed as natural for him to early
welcome his returning brothers of the woods and hills as to say
good-morning to his fellow mortals. And, in the joy of seeing Black Spur
rising again to his level in the distance before him, he doffed his hat
to it with a return of his old boyish habit, laid his arm caressingly
around the great girth of the nearest pine, clapped his hands to the
scampering squirrels in his path, and whistled to the dipping jays.
In this way he quite forgot the more serious affairs of the preceding
night, or, rather, saw them only in the gilding of the morning, until,
looking up, he perceived the tall figure of Demorest approaching him;
and then it struck him with his first glance at his old partner's face
that his usual suave, gentle melancholy had been succeeded by a critical
cynicism of look and a restrained bitterness of accent. Barker's loyal
heart smote him for his own selfishness; Demorest had been hard hit
by the discovery of the forgery and Stacy's concern in it, and had
doubtless passed a restless night, while he (Barker) had forgotten all
about it. "I thought of knocking at your door, as I passed," he said,
with sympathetic apology, "but I was afraid I might disturb you. Isn't
it glorious here? Quite like the old hill. Look at that lizard; he
hasn't moved since he first saw me. Do you remember the one who used to
steal our sugar, and then stiffen himself into stone on the edge of the
bowl until he looked like an ornamental handle to it?" he continued,
rebounding again into spirits.

"Barker," said Demorest abruptly, "what sort of woman is this Mrs. Van
Loo, whose rooms I occupy?"

"Oh," said Barker, with optimistic innocence, "a most proper woman, old
chap. White-haired, well-dressed, with a little foreign accent and a
still more foreign courtesy. Why, you don't suppose we'd"--

"But what is she like?" said Demorest impatiently.

"Well," said Barker thoughtfully, "she's the kind of woman who might be
Van Loo's mother, I suppose."

"You mean the mother of a forger and a swindler?" asked Demorest
sharply.

"There are no mothers of swindlers and forgers," said Barker gravely,
"in the way you mean. It's only those poor devils," he said, pointing,
nevertheless, with a certain admiration to a circling sparrow-hawk above
him, "who have inherited instincts. What I mean is that she might