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“Ah, you will not see him die?” she urged.

“It seems to move you greatly what happens to this man,” he said, his determined dark eyes searching hers, for she baffled him. If she could feel so much for a “casual,” why not a little more feeling for him? Suddenly, as he drew her eyes to him again, there came the conviction that they were full of feeling for him. They were sending a message, an appealing, passionate message, which told him more than he had ever heard from her or seen in her face before. Yes, she was his! Without a word spoken she had told him so. What, then, held her back? But women were a race by themselves, and he knew that he must wait till she chose to have him know what she had unintentionally conveyed but now.

“Yes, I am moved,” she continued, slowly. “Who can tell what this man might do with his life if it is saved! Don’t you think of that? It isn’t the importance of a life that’s at stake; it’s the importance of living; and we do not live alone, do we?”

His mind was made up. “I will not, cannot promise anything till I have seen him. But I will go and see him, and I’ll send you word later what I can do or not do. Will that satisfy you? If I cannot do it, I will come to say good-bye.”

Her face was set with suppressed feeling. She held out her hand to him impulsively, and was about to speak, but suddenly caught the hand away again from his thrilling grasp and, turning hurriedly, left the room. In the hall she met Father Bourassa.

“Go with him to the hospital,” she whispered, and disappeared through the doorway.

Immediately after she had gone, a man came driving hard to bring Father Bourassa to visit a dying Catholic in the prairie, and it was Finden who accompanied Varley to the hospital, waited for him till his examination of the “casual” was concluded, and met him outside.

“Can it be done?” he asked of Varley. “I’ll take word to Father Bourassa.”

“It can be done–it will be done,” answered Varley, absently. “I do not understand the man. He has been in a different sphere of life. He tried to hide it, but the speech–occasionally! I wonder.”

“You wonder if he’s worth saving?”

Varley shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “No; that’s not what I meant.”

Finden smiled to himself. “Is it a difficult case?” he asked.

“Critical and delicate; but it has been my specialty.”

“One of the local doctors couldn’t do it, I suppose?”

“They would be foolish to try.”

“And you are going away at sunrise to-morrow?”

“Who told you that?” Varley’s voice was abrupt, impatient.

“I heard you say so–everybody knows it…. That’s a bad man yonder, Varley.” He jerked his thumb toward the hospital. “A terrible bad man, he’s been. A gentleman once, and fell down–fell down hard. He’s done more harm than most men. He’s broken a woman’s heart and spoiled her life, and, if he lives, there’s no chance for her, none at all. He killed a man, and the law wants him; and she can’t free herself without ruining him; and she can’t marry the man she loves because of that villain yonder, crying for his life to be saved. By Josh and by Joan, but it’s a shame, a dirty shame, it is!”

Suddenly Varley turned and gripped his arm with fingers of steel.

“His name–his real name?”

“His name’s Meydon–and a dirty shame it is, Varley.”

Varley was white. He had been leading his horse and talking to Finden. He mounted quickly now, and was about to ride away, but stopped short again. “Who knows–who knows the truth?” he asked.

“Father Bourassa and me–no others,” he answered. “I knew Meydon thirty years ago.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Varley said, hoarsely, “Tell me–tell me all.”

When all was told, he turned his horse toward the wide waste of the prairie, and galloped away. Finden watched him till he was lost to view beyond the bluff.