quickly, the flickering light of
reason that burned fitfully through the chaos of his soul. She was
certain that reason had departed; was it beyond recall? She must try.
Precious as she felt the moments to be, she must yet try. She took one
of Elijah's hands in her own firm grasp.

"You don't understand, Elijah. He is not your enemy." She dared not use
Seymour's name again. "He is your friend. He and Ralph have sent out men
to find you; they are searching for you now. They are looking for you to
tell you that the money has been restored. They say that--" Helen
hesitated, but the pause was imperceptible, "you did the best thing, the
best thing for the company, in buying the Pico ranch; that you saw
farther than they did."

Helen was hesitating mentally, but her words went on without pause. She
was watching intently for a sign of comprehension in the stolid,
passionless face. With her last words, the light came again to the eyes
she was searching. Not the fierce passion-blaze of unchained fury, only
the peaceful glow of returning reason. He spoke slowly, stumblingly, as
one waking from a dream.

"They know now,--that I was right, that--I did right?" The eyes again
wavered between intelligence and stupor.

"Yes, Elijah, they know now."

His voice was querulous.

"Why didn't they trust me? After all I had done; why didn't they trust
me?"

"They do trust you now. Come back, Elijah. All is forgiven."

Elijah's reply was again querulous, almost peevish.

"Why didn't they trust me? Why didn't they trust me before it was too
late?" The bitterness dropped from voice and manner. His voice was loud
and terrible. "Don't you hear me? It is too late! Listen! It is too
late! Don't you know what this means? Listen! The roar of the water has
stopped! Don't you know what this means? The flood gates are closed. In
a few minutes, in a few hours, the reservoir will fill, and the water
will go over the dam. Don't you know what that means? It is too late!"
He paused! there was a strained look in his eyes. Then he sprang into
action.

"Is it too late? My God! Is it too late?"

He was in the saddle, the pony's head pointing up the canyon, his flanks
shrinking from the pounding stirrups, and from the lashings of the
bridle thongs.

Helen watched the flying horseman. For a moment she was struck
motionless with uncomprehending terror. What did it all mean? What could
she do? Oh, if Ralph were only here! For a moment she stood; then