ear the sound of a human and friendly voice
making him overlook the excitement under which Bernique laboured. He
tied Bernique's horse to a bush and drew the old man up the bluff.
"Where have you been this time? Where is Piney? Hello! what's the matter
with you anyhow? struck another lode?"

Old Bernique spread out his palms avertingly. "You go fas'," he
protested. "Wait, I beg. I have again had those exper-r-ience that so
much disturb me. But no, I have not found anothaire lode, though I have
been on the hills vair' long time. Thees day I come a-r-round by the way
of Canaan. At the pos'-office I am stop'." The old man was talking now
with his eyes burning into Steering's eyes, an expression of horror
flattening his face; he held the four fingers of one lean hand pressed
to his mouth, so that his words came out inarticulate and broken, though
they seemed to scorch his throat like balls of fire. "At the pos'-office
one say to me, 'Here is lettaire for you!' I take the lettaire and
read.... Now, I ask you, Mistaire Steering, to take it and read."
Bernique drew forth a letter from his pocket and thrust it into
Steering's hand with a finely dramatic gesture. He had the appreciation
of his race for climax.

The letter, Steering saw at once, was in the same gnarled handwriting as
that letter which Crittenton Madeira had given him to read on the first
day of his arrival in Canaan, and its contents made evident the same
gnarled personality that had been made evident by that first letter.

"Read it aloud," said Bernique, and Steering read:

"'Deep Canyon, Colorado, September 23rd, 1899,' hey! what's the matter
with the date, where's the slow-boy been?"

"Read on, Mistaire Steering," said Bernique grimly. But Steering looked
at the post-mark on the envelope in his hand before he read on.

"Post-mark's dated April 23rd, 1900--why----"

"Read on!" cried old Bernique. "It is explain'," and Steering read on.

"'My dear Placide:--You and I were good friends in the days that we
spent in prospecting over the Canaan hills, and, even though I incurred
your displeasure when I abandoned the hills, I am depending upon the
old friendship to influence you to do a last friendly act for me. It is
not necessary for me to acquaint you with the detail of humiliations and
persecutions to which I have been subjected by the man of whom I was
once so foolish as to borrow money, any more than it is necessary for me
to condone to you the desire t