as
memory brought back to him her vividness, the fervid speech, the humor,
the touch of her. He closed his eyes for a moment, she was in his arms,
there came the odor of her dusky hair, and for the first time in his
life he was a man.

"Gregoire!" he called to the sleeping guide.

"Oui, monsieur."

"The distance to the nearest railroad?"

"By land--it is sixty miles, m'sieu."

"By the lakes?"

"It is much shorter, but of an extreme dangerousness."

"We will go by the lakes."

"When, m'sieur?"

"To-night, Gregoire!"

XIII

DERMOTT'S INTERVIEW WITH FRANK AT THE TREVOY

In three days Frank reached New York, where he found mail at the club:
from the South; from the Western mines; from women inviting him; as well
as five or six messages by wire or mail from one Philip de Peyster,
soliciting an immediate interview. Even in his perturbed and planless
state these repeated demands made an impression on Frank, and in the
morning he telephoned that he was at the Trevoy for the day, and would
be pleased to see Mr. de Peyster at his convenience, suggesting the
luncheon-hour as a time when both might be free.

Having received no response to his message, at two o'clock he entered
the dining-room of the Trevoy alone. After ordering, he sat looking
indifferently from one group to another, and noted, with surprise, that
Dermott McDermott, with his back toward him, was at the next table
lunching with a number of men, who seemed, to Frank's quick eye, bent
on conciliation.

There was nothing in the Irishman's appearance to suggest the man of
fashion whom Frank had known in Carolina. His clothes were of rough
tweed, he wore an unpicturesque derby hat, and he had the
unconsciousness of self which comes from intense occupation with great
affairs.

Francis listened to the jolly laugh, the quick evasion, the masterful
voice, leading, cajoling; he knew the men were wanting something from
McDermott, and realized, as they did not, that it was something the
Irishman had determined not to give.

It was of Frank's own home they were speaking, disconnectedly, and in a
strange jargon: of Loon Mountain, Way-Home River, road-beds, cost of
production, capitalization, bridges.

As he sat wondering at them, their concentration, their unity of
thought, their enthusiasm, by one of those throws of fate, which go far
toward the making of our lives, Dermott's voice came to him clear and
scornful.

"I have heard much, I might sa