ue
Sears Covington--that was his name; the name that had been handed down
to Monte. The man had shouldered a rifle, fought his way across
deserts and over mountain paths, had risked his life a dozen times a
day to reach the unknown El Dorado of the West. He had done this
partly for a woman--a slip of a girl in New York whom he left behind to
wait for him, though she begged to go. That was Monte's grandmother.

Monte, in spite of his ancestry, had jogged along, dodging the
responsibilities--the responsibilities that Peter Noyes rushed forward
to meet. He had ducked even love, even fatherhood. Like any quitter
on the gridiron, instead of tackling low and hard, he had side-stepped.
He had seen Chic in agony, and because of that had taken the next boat
for Marseilles. He had turned tail and run. He had seen Teddy, and
had run to what he thought was safe cover. If he paid the cost after
that, whose the fault? The least he could do now was to pay the cost
like a man.

Here was the salient necessity--to pay the cost like a man. There must
be no whining, no regretting, no side-stepping this time. He must make
her free by surrendering all his own rights, privileges, and title. He
must turn her over to Peter, who had played the game. He must do more.
He must see that she went to Peter. He must accomplish something
positive this time.

Beatrice had asked him to use his influence. It was slight, pitifully
slight, but he must do what he could. He must plan for them,
deliberately, more such opportunities as this one he had planned for
them unconsciously to-day. He must give them more chances to be
together. He had looked forward to having breakfast with her in the
morning. He must give up that. He must keep himself in the background
while he was here, and then, at the right moment, get out altogether.

Technically, he must desert her. He must make that supreme sacrifice.
At the moment when he stood ready to challenge the world for her--at
the moment when his heart within him burned to face for her all the
dangers from which he had run--at that point he must relinquish even
this privilege, and with smiling lips pose before the world and before
her as a quitter. He must not even use the deserter's prerogative of
running. He must leave her cheerfully and jauntily--as the care-free
ass known to her and to the world as just Monte.

The scorn of those words stung him white with helpless passion. She
had wished