ing before him.

"Harry," he called, "Harry! Get me out of here--I--can't stand it!"

Wordlessly the big man came to his side. Wordlessly they made the trip
back to the hole in the cave-in and then followed the trail of new-laid
track to the shaft. Up--up--the trip seemed endless as they jerked and
pulled on the weighted rope, that their shaft bucket might travel to
the surface. Then, at the mouth of the tunnel, Robert Fairchild stood
for a long time staring out over the soft hills and the radiance of the
snowy range, far away. It gave him a new strength, a new
determination. The light, the sunshine, the soft outlines of the scrub
pines in the distance, the freedom and openness of the mountains seemed
to instill into him a courage he could not feel down there in the
dampness and darkness of the tunnel. His shoulders surged, as though
to shake off a great weight. His eyes brightened with resolution.
Then he turned to the faithful Harry, waiting in the background.

"There's no use trying to evade anything, Harry. We 've got to face
the music. Will you go with me to notify the coroner--or would you
rather stay here?"

"I 'll go."

Silently they trudged into town and to the little undertaking shop
which also served as the office of the coroner. They made their
report, then accompanied the officer, together with the sheriff, back
to the mine and into the drift. There once more they clambered through
the hole in the cave-in and on toward the beginning of the stope. And
there they pointed out their discovery.

A wait for the remainder of that day,--a day that seemed ages long, a
day in which Robert Fairchild found himself facing the editor of the
_Bugle_, and telling his story, Harry beside him. But he told only
what he had found, nothing of the past, nothing of the white-haired man
who had waited by the window, cringing at the slightest sound on the
old, vine-clad veranda, nothing of the letter which he had found in the
dusty safe. Nothing was asked regarding that; nothing could be gained
by telling it. In the heart of Robert Fairchild was the conviction
that somehow, some way, his father was innocent, and in his brain was a
determination to fight for that innocence as long as it was humanly
possible. But gossip told what he did not.

There were those who remembered the departure of Thornton Fairchild
from Ohadi. There were others who recollected perfectly that in the
center of the rig was a singing,