upon which
she had relied begin to fail her. Nevertheless, she summoned them to her
support and met him full armed with the evasions and complexities of her
sex.

"This is a surprise, Mr. Collins," he was informed in her best society
voice.

"And a pleasure?"

"Of course. But I'm sorry that father has been called to Phoenix. I
suppose you came to tell him about your success."

"To brag about it," he corrected. "But not to your father--to his
daughter."

"That's very thoughtful of you. Will you begin now?"

"Not yet. There is something I have to tell you, Miss Mackenzie."

At the gravity in his voice the lightness slipped from her like a cloak.

"Yes. Tell me your news. Over the telephone all sorts of rumors have
come to us. But even these were hearsay."

"I thought of telephoning you the facts. Then I decided to ride out
and tell you at once. I knew you would want to hear the story at first
hand."

Her patrician manner was gone. Her eyes looked their thanks at him.
"That was good of you. I have been very anxious to get the facts.
One rumor was that you have captured Sir Leroy. Is it true?"

It seemed to her that his look was one of grave tenderness. "No, that is
not true. You remember what we said of him--of how he might die?"

"He is dead--you killed him," she cried, all the color washed from her
face.

"He is dead, but I did not kill him."

"Tell me," she commanded.

He told her, beginning at the moment of his meeting with the outlaws at
the Dalriada dump and continuing to the last scene of the tragedy. It
touched her so nearly that she could not hear him through dry-eyed.

"And he spoke of me?" She said it in a low voice, to herself rather than
to him.

"It was just before his mind began to wander--almost his last conscious
thought. He said that when you heard the news you would remember. What
you were to remember he didn't say. I took it you would know."

"Yes. I was to remember that he was not all wolf to me." She told it
with a little break of tears in her voice.

"Then he told me to tell you that it was the best way out for him. He
had come to the end of the road, and it would not have been possible for
him to go back." Presently Collins added gently: "If you don't mind my
saying so, I think he was right. He was content to go, quite game and
steady in his easy way. If he had lived, there could have been no going
back for him. It was his nature to go the limit. The tragedy is in his
life