them Fairchild and Harry made
the same reply: that they had nothing to say, that they had given all
the information possible on the witness stand during the inquest, and
that there was nothing further forthcoming.

And it was while he made this statement for the hundredth time that
Fairchild saw Anita Richmond going to the post-office with the rest of
the usual crowd, following the arrival of the morning train. Again she
passed him without speaking, but her glance did not seem so cold as it
had been on the morning that he had seen her with Rodaine, nor did the
lack of recognition appear as easily simulated. That she knew what had
happened and the charge that had been made against his father,
Fairchild did not doubt. That she knew he had read the "personal" in
the _Bugle_ was as easily determined. Between them was a gulf--caused
by what Fairchild could only guess--a gulf which he could not essay to
cross, and which she, for some reason, would not. But there was
nothing that could stop him from watching her, with hungry eyes which
followed her until she had disappeared in the doorway of the
post-office, eyes which believed they detected a listlessness in her
walk and a slight droop to the usually erect little shoulders, eyes
which were sure of one thing: that the smile was gone from the lips,
that upon her features were the lines and hollows of sleeplessness, and
the unmistakable lack of luster and color which told him that she was
not happy. Even the masculine mentality of Fairchild could discern
that. But it could not answer the question which the decision brought.
She had become engaged to a man whom she had given evidence of hating.
She had refused to recognize Fairchild, whom she had appeared to like.
She had cast her lot with the Rodaines--and she was unhappy. Beyond
that, everything was blank to Fairchild.

An hour later Harry, wandering by the younger man's side, strove for
words and at last uttered them.

"I know it's disagreeable," came finally. "But it's necessary. You
'ave n't quit?"

"Quit what?"

"The mine. You 're going to keep on, ain't you?"

Fairchild gritted his teeth and was silent. The answer needed
strength. Finally it came.

"Harry, are you with me?"

"I ain't stopped yet!"

"Then that's the answer. As long as there 's a bit of fight left in
us, we 'll keep at that mine. I don't know where it's going to lead
us--but from appearances as they stand now, the only outlook seem