home; where
Myra Willard, seeing her come so early and empty handed, wondered. But to
the woman's question, the girl only answered that she had changed her
mind--that, after recovering her gloves and fly-book at the camp of their
friends, she had decided to come home. The woman with the disfigured face,
knowing that Aaron King was leaving the hills the next day, thought that
she understood the girl's mood, and wisely made no comment.

The artist and Conrad Lagrange went to spend their last evening in the
hills with their friends. Brian Oakley, too, dropped in. But neither of
the three men mentioned the name of James Rutlidge in the presence of the
women; while Sibyl was, apparently, again her own bright and happy
self--carrying on a fanciful play of words with the novelist, singing with
the artist, and making music for them all with her violin. But before the
evening was over, Conrad Lagrange found an opportunity to tell the Ranger
of the incident of the morning, and of the construction that James
Rutlidge had evidently put upon Sibyl's call at the camp. Brian
Oakley,--thinking of the night before, and how the man must have seen the
artist and the girl coming down the Oak Knoll trail in the
twilight,--swore softly under his breath.

Chapter XXIII

Outside the Canyon Gates Again

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange determined to go back from the mountains,
the way they had come. Said the novelist, "It is as unseemly to rush
pell-mell from an audience with the gods as it is to enter their presence
irreverently."

To which the artist answered, laughing, "Even criminals under sentence
have, at least, the privilege of going to their prisons reluctantly."

So they went down from the mountains, reverently and reluctantly.

Yee Kee, with the more elaborate equipment of the camp, was sent on ahead
by wagon. The two men, with Croesus packed for a one night halt, and Czar,
would follow. When all was ready, and they could neither of them invent
any more excuses for lingering, Conrad Lagrange gave the word to the burro
and they set out--down the little slope of grassy land; across the tiny
stream from the cienaga; around the lower end of the old orchard, by the
ancient weed-grown road--even Czar went slowly, with low-hung head, as if
regretful at leaving the mountains that he, too, in his dog way, loved.

At the gate, Aaron King asked the novelist to go on, saying that he would
soon overtake him. It was possible, he sai