th an identity that may not
belong to you. You are one of two men. One of them is Judson Clark, and
I'll be honest with you; I'm pretty sure you're Clark. The other I don't
know, but I have reason to believe that he spent part of his time with
Henry Livingstone at Dry River."

"I went to the Livingstone ranch yesterday. I remember my early home.
That wasn't it. Which one of these two men will be arrested if he is
recognized?"

"Clark."

"For what?"

"I'm coming to that. I suppose you'll have to know. Another drink? No?
All right. About ten years ago, or a little less, a young chap called
Judson Clark got into trouble here, and headed into the mountains in a
blizzard. He was supposed to have frozen to death. But recently a woman
named Donaldson made a confession on her deathbed. She said that she had
helped to nurse Clark in a mountain cabin, and that with the aid of some
one unnamed he had got away."

"Then I'm Clark. I remember her, and the cabin."

There was a short silence following that admission. To Dick, it was
filled with the thought of Elizabeth, and of her relation to what he was
about to hear. Again he braced himself for what was coming.

"I suppose," he said at last, "that if I ran away I was in pretty
serious trouble. What was it?"

"We've got no absolute proof that you are Clark, remember. You don't
know, and Maggie Donaldson was considered not quite sane before she
died. I've told you there's a chance you are the other man."

"All right. What had Clark done?"

"He had shot a man."

The reporter was instantly alarmed. If Dick had been haggard before, he
was ghastly now. He got up slowly and held to the back of his chair.

"Not--murder?" he asked, with stiff lips.

"No," Bassett said quickly. "Not at all. See here, you've had about all
you can stand. Remember, we don't even know you are Clark. All I said
was--"

"I understand that. It was murder, wasn't it?"

"Well, there had been a quarrel, I understand. The law allows for that,
I think."

Dick went slowly to the window, and stood with his back to Bassett. For
a long time the room was quiet. In the street below long lines of cars
in front of the hotel denoted the luncheon hour. An Indian woman with a
child in the shawl on her back stopped in the street, looked up at Dick
and extended a beaded belt. With it still extended she continued to
stare at his white face.

"The man died, of course?" he asked at last, without turning.

"Yes. I