be with us. We both like him so much, and it would have been very
nice to have him too, while you are at Rushing River Camp."

"Oh, he couldn't come!" Carmen echoed dully.

"No. Isn't it too bad? We thought you'd know--that he might have
written----"

"Perhaps he has, and I've missed the letter," Carmen broke in, hating to
let these strangers think her slighted by Hilliard. "I've been in San
Francisco two days. But--where is he? On his way home?"

"I don't quite know," replied Mrs. Harland, rather evasively, it seemed.
And then she changed the subject.

Carmen had never seen anything like that winding road over the mountains,
with the white, phantom glimpses of Shasta at every forest turning.
Falconer's big automobile, which he kept at the "Camp," ran up the steep
gradients without appearing to know that they existed, and Carmen strove
to be cheerful, to look as if she were enjoying the drive. But her heart
was a lump of ice, though she talked and laughed a great deal, telling
Mrs. Harland about the rich or important people she knew, instead of
drinking in the sweet air, and giving her eyes to the wild loveliness. It
was bad enough that Nick was not coming, but the air of reserve or
uneasiness with which Mrs. Harland had said, "I don't quite know," touched
the situation with mystery. She realized that, if there were anything to
hide, she would not find it out from her host or hostess; but when on the
veranda of the glorified log-house overhanging the river she saw Theo
Dene, Carmen instantly said to herself with conviction, "If _she_ knows,
I'll get it out of her!"

And seeing Miss Dene at Rushing River Camp she was almost inclined to be
glad that Nick was not there. She admired Theo's splendid red hair and
dazzling skin. She saw that, though the young woman's clothes were simple,
their simplicity was Parisian and expensive; and she saw also that Theo
was a flirt--a "man-eater," as she put it to herself, her dark eyes
meeting the green eyes in a first understanding glance.

Miss Dene was far from unwilling to be pumped. In fact, she meant to be
pumped; and that afternoon, while Mrs. Harland was writing letters and
Falconer was with his secretary, whom he could not escape even in the
country, she invited Mrs. Gaylor to sit with her on the broad veranda,
beneath which the river ran singing a never-ending song.

The two pretty women, the one dark the other fair, made a charming
picture, and neither was oblivious of