er his head, drew a little back.

He opened his eyes and looked wonderingly up at the dark pines that
clothed the mountainsides. His lips moved and she heard her name; "Sibyl,
Sibyl."

She leaned forward, eagerly, her cheeks glowing with color. "Yes, Mr.
King."

"Am I dreaming, again?" he said slowly, gazing at her as though struggling
to command his senses.

"No, Mr. King," she answered cheerily, "you are not dreaming."

Carefully, as one striving to follow a thread of thought in a bewildering
tangle of events, he went over the hours just past. "I was up on that peak
where you and I ate lunch the day you tried to make me see the Golden
State Limited coming down from the pass. Brian Oakley sent me there to
watch for buzzards." For a moment he turned away his face, then continued,
"I saw flashes of light in Fairlands and on Granite Peak. I left a note
for Brian and came over the range. I spent one night on the way. I found
tracks on the peak. There were two, a man and a woman. I followed them to
a ledge of rock at the head of a canyon," he paused. Thus far the thread
of his thought was clear. "Did some one stop me? Was there--was there a
fight? Or is that part of my dream?"

"No," she said softly, "that is not part of your dream."

"And it was James Rutlidge who stopped me, as I was going to you?"

"Yes."

"Then where--" with quick energy he sat up and grasped her arm--"My God!
Sibyl--Miss Andres, did I, did I--" He could not finish the sentence, but
sank back, overcome with emotion.

The girl spoke quickly, with a clear, insistent voice that rallied his
mind and forced him to command himself.

"Think, Mr. King, think! Do you remember nothing more? You were
struggling--your strength was going--can't you remember? You must, you
must!"

Lifting his face he looked at her. "Was there a rifle-shot?" he asked
slowly. "It seems to me that something in my brain snapped, and everything
went black. Was there a rifle-shot?"

"Yes," she answered.

"And I did not--I did not--?"

"No. You did not kill James Rutlidge. He would have killed you, but for
the shot that you heard."

"And Rutlidge is--?"

"He is dead," she answered simply.

"But who--?"

Briefly, she told him the story, from the time that she had met Mrs.
Taine in the studio until the convict had left her, a few minutes before.
"And now," she finished, rising quickly, "we must go down to the cabin.
There is food there. You must be nearly starved. I