od condition; the
only moisture being that of a natural seepage which counted for little.
The timbers still stood dry and firm, except where dripping water in a
few cases had caused the blocks to become spongy and great holes to be
pressed in them by the larger timbers which held back the tremendous
weight from above. Suddenly, as they walked along. Harry took the
lead, holding his lantern far ahead of him, with one big hand behind
it, as though for a reflector. Then, just as suddenly, he turned.

"Let's go out," came shortly.

"Why?"

"It's there!" In the light of the lantern,

Harry's face was white, his big lips livid. "Let's go--"

But Fairchild stopped him.

"Harry," he said, and there was determination in his voice, "if it's
there--we 've got to face it. I 'll be the one who will suffer. My
father is gone. There are no accusations where he rests now; I 'm sure
of that. If--if he ever did anything in his life that wasn't right, he
paid for it. We don't know what happened, Harry--all we are sure of is
that if it's what we 're--we 're afraid of, we 've gone too far now to
turn back. Don't you think that certain people would make an
investigation if we should happen to quit the mine now?"

"The Rodaines!"

"Exactly. They would scent something, and within an hour they 'd be
down in here, snooping around. And how much worse would it be for them
to tell the news--than for us!"

"Nobody 'as to tell it--" Harry was staring at his carbide
flare--"there 's a wye."

"But we can't take it, Harry. In my father's letter was the statement
that he made only one mistake--that of fear. I 'm going to believe
him--and in spite of what I find here, I 'm going to hold him innocent,
and I 'm going to be fair and square and aboveboard about it all. The
world can think what it pleases--about him and about me. There 's
nothing on my conscience--and I know that if my father had not made the
mistake of running away when he did, there would have been nothing on
his."

Harry shook his head.

"'E could n't do much else, Boy. Rodaine was stronger in some ways
then than he is now. That was in different days. That was in times
when Squint Rodaine could 'ave gotten a 'undred men together quicker 'n
a cat's wink and lynched a man without 'im 'aving a trial or anything.
And if I 'd been your father, I 'd 'ave done the same as 'e did. I 'd
'ave run too--'e 'd 'ave paid for it with 'is life if 'e didn't, guilty
or n