moment of queries, then the miner's hand pointed to Fairchild as
he turned toward her.

"It's his partner."

She moved forward then and Fairchild went to meet her.

"I 'm sorry," she said, and extended her hand. Fairchild gripped it
eagerly.

"Thank you. But it may not be as bad as the rumors."

"I hope not." Then quickly she withdrew her hand, and somewhat
flustered, turned as her companion edged closer. "Maurice, this is Mr.
Fairchild," she announced, and Fairchild could do nothing but stare.
She knew his name! A second more and it was explained; "My father knew
his father very well."

"I think my own father was acquainted too," was the rejoinder, and the
eyes of the two men met for an instant in conflict. The girl did not
seem to notice.

"I sold him a ticket this morning to the dance, not knowing who he was.
Then father happened to see him pass the house and pointed him out to
me as the son of a former friend of his. Funny how those things
happen, is n't it?"

"Decidedly funny!" was the caustic rejoinder of the younger Rodaine.
Fairchild laughed, to cover the air of intensity. He knew
instinctively that Anita Richmond was not talking to him simply because
she had sold him a ticket to a dance and because her father might have
pointed him out. He felt sure that there was something else behind
it,--the feeling of a debt which she owed him, a feeling of
companionship engendered upon a sunlit road, during the moments of
stress, and the continuance of that meeting in those few moments in the
drug store, when he had handed her back her ten-dollar bill. She had
called herself a cad then, and the feeling that she perhaps had been
abrupt toward a man who had helped her out of a disagreeable
predicament was prompting her action now; Fairchild felt sure of that.
And he was glad of the fact, very glad. Again he laughed, while
Rodaine eyed him narrowly. Fairchild shrugged his shoulders.

"I 'm not going to believe this story until it's proven to me," came
calmly. "Rumors can be started too easily. I don't see how it was
possible for a man to fall into a mine shaft and not struggle there
long enough for a man who had heard his shout to see him."

"Who brought the news?" Rodaine asked the question.

Fairchild deliberately chose his words:

"A tall, thin, ugly old man, with mean squint eyes and a scar straight
up his forehead."

A flush appeared on the other man's face. Fairchild saw his hands
contr