heart beating faster than
usual. "You are that man?"

"Yes," said Wyllard simply, "I did what I could for him. It didn't
amount to very much. He was too far gone."

Briefly he repeated the story that he had told to Hawtrey, and, when he
had finished, her face was soft again, for what he said had stirred her
curiously.

"But," she commented, "he had no claim on you."

Wyllard lifted one hand with a motion that disclaimed all right to
commendation. "He was dying in the bush. Wasn't that enough?"

The girl made no answer for a moment or two. She had earned her living
for several years, and she was to some extent acquainted with the grim
realities of life. She did not know that while there are hard men in
Canada the small farmers and ranchers of the West--and, perhaps above
all, the fearless free lances who build railroads and grapple with giant
trees in the forests of the Pacific slope--are as a rule, distinguished
by a splendid charity. With them the sick or worn-out stranger is seldom
turned away. Watching the stranger covertly, she understood that this
man whom she had seen for the first time three days before had done
exactly what she would have expected of him.

"I saw a great deal of Lance Radcliffe--when I was younger," she said.
"His people still live at Garside Scar, close by Dufton Holme. I presume
you will call on them?"

Wyllard said that he purposed doing so, as he had a watch and one or two
other mementos that they might like to have, and she told him how to
reach Dufton Holme by a round-about railway journey.

"There is one point that rather puzzles me," she said, after she had
made it plain how he was to find the Radcliffe family. "How did you know
that I could tell you anything about him?"

Wyllard thrust his hand into his pocket, and took out a little leather
case.

"You are by no means a stranger to me," he remarked as he handed her the
photograph. "This is your picture; I found it among the dead lad's
things."

The girl, who started visibly, flashed a keen glance at him. It was
evident that he had not intended to produce any dramatic effect. She
flushed a little.

"I never knew he had it," she asserted. "Perhaps he got it from his
sister." She paused, and then, as if impelled to make the fact quite
clear, added, "I certainly never gave it to him."

Wyllard smiled gravely, for he recognized that while she was clearly
grieved to hear of young Radcliffe's death, she could have had no
par