James Rutlidge considered. "I've got it!" he said at last. "Listen! There
must be some peak, at the Cold Water end of this range, from which you can
see Fairlands as well as the Galena Valley."

"Yes," the other answered eagerly.

"And," continued Rutlidge, "there is a good 'auto' road up the Galena
Valley. One could get, I should think, to a point within--say nine hours
of your camp. Do you know anything about the heliograph?"

"Yes," said the man, his face brightening. "That is, I understand the
general principle--that it's a method of signaling by mirror flashes."

"Good! This is my plan. I will meet you to-morrow on the Laurel Creek
trail, where it turns off from the creek toward San Gorgonio. You know the
spot?"

"Yes."

"We will go around the head of Clear Creek, on the divide between this
canyon and the Cold Water, to some peak in the Galenas from which we can
see Fairlands; and where, with the field-glass, we can pick out some point
at the upper end of Galena Valley, that we can both find later."

"I understand."

"When I get back to Fairlands, I will make a night trip in the 'auto' to
that point, with supplies. You will meet me there. The day before I make
the trip, I'll signal you by mirror flashes that I am coming; and you will
answer from the peak. We'll agree on the time of day and the signals
to-morrow. When you have kept close, long enough for your beard and hair
to grow out well, everybody will have given you up for dead or gone. Then
I will take you down and give you a job in an orange grove. There's a
little house there where you can live. You won't need to show yourself
down-town and, in time, you will be forgotten. I'll bring you enough food
to-morrow to last you until I can return to town and can get back on the
first night trip."

The man who left James Rutlidge a few minutes later, after trying brokenly
to express his gratitude, was a creature very different from the poor,
frightened hunted, starving, despairing, wretch that Rutlidge had halted
an hour before. What that man was to become, would depend almost wholly
upon his benefactor.

When the man was gone, James Rutlidge again took up his field-glass. The
old home of Sibyl Andres was deserted. While he had been talking with the
convict, the girl and Myra Willard had started on their way back to
Fairlands.

With a peculiar smile upon his heavy features, the man slipped the glass
into its case, and, with a long, slow look over th