heard, worked its way back a few
days ago. It's a forsaken country, and if he lost his horse he was in it
on foot and without food. Of course there's a chance--"

His voice trailed off. In the stillness David sat, touching with tender
tremulous fingers what might be Dick's last message, and gazing at the
picture of Dick in his uniform. He knew what they all thought, that Dick
was dead and that he held his final words in his hands, but his militant
old spirit refused to accept that silent verdict. Dick might be dead
to them, but he was living. He looked around the room defiantly,
resentfully. Of all of them he was the only one to have faith, and he
was bound to a chair. He knew them. They would sit down supinely and
grieve, while time passed and Dick fought his battle alone.

No, by God, he would not be bound to a chair. He raised himself and
stood, swaying on his shaking legs.

"You've given up," he said scornfully. "You make a few days' search, and
then you quit. It's easy to say he's dead, and so you say he's dead. I'm
going out there myself, and I'll make a search--"

He collapsed into the chair again, and looked at them with shamed,
appealing eyes. Bassett was the first to break the silence, speaking in
a carefully emotionless tone.

"I haven't given up for a minute. I've given up the search, because he's
beyond finding just now. Either he's got away, or he is--well, beyond
help. We have to go on the hypothesis that he got away, and in that
case sooner or later you'll hear from him. He's bound to remember you in
time. The worst thing is this charge against him."

"He never killed Howard Lucas," David said, in a tone of conviction.
"Harrison, read Mr. Bassett my statement to you."

Bassett took the statement home with him that night, and studied it
carefully. It explained a great deal that had puzzled him before; Mrs.
Wasson's story and David's arrival at the mountain cabin. But most of
all it explained why the Thorwald woman had sent him after Dick. She
knew then, in spite of her protests to David, that Jud Clark had not
killed Lucas.

He paced the floor for an hour or two, sunk in thought, and then
unlocked a desk drawer and took out his bankbook. He had saved a little
money. Not much, but it would carry him over if he couldn't get another
leave of absence. He thought, as he put the book away and prepared for
bed, that it was a small price to pay for finding Clifton Hines and
saving his own soul.