Then he began to tell her of his visit to Peter Keller.  His own heart was beating violently when he came to speak of the grave and the slab over it that bore the name of FitzHugh.  He had expected that what he had discovered from Keller would create some sort of a sensation.  He had even come up to the final fact gradually, so that it would not appear bald and shocking.  Joanne’s attitude stunned him.  She looked straight ahead.  When she turned to him he did not see in her eyes what he had expected to see.  They were quiet, emotionless, except for that shadow of inward torture which did not leave them.

“Then to-morrow we can go to the grave?” she asked simply.

Her voice, too, was quiet and without emotion.

He nodded.  “We can leave at sunrise,” he said.  “I have my own horses at Tete Jaune and there need be no delay.  We were to start into the North from there.”

“You mean on the adventure you were telling me about?”

She had looked at him quickly.

“Yes.  Old Donald, my partner, has been waiting for me a week.  That’s why I was so deuced anxious to rush the book to an end.  I’m behind Donald’s schedule, and he’s growing nervous.  It’s rather an unusual enterprise that’s taking us north this time, and Donald can’t understand why I should hang back to write the tail end of a book.  He has lived sixty years in the mountains.  His full name is Donald MacDonald.  Sometimes, back in my own mind, I’ve called him History.  He seems like that—­as though he’d lived for ages in these mountains instead of sixty years.  If I could only write what he has lived—­even what one might imagine that he has lived!  But I cannot.  I have tried three times, and have failed.  I think of him as The Last Spirit—­a strange wandering ghost of the mighty ranges.  His kind passed away a hundred years ago.  You will understand—­when you see him.”

She put her hand on his arm and let it rest there lightly as they walked.  Into her eyes had returned some of the old warm glow of yesterday.

“I want you to tell me about this adventure,” she entreated softly.  “I understand—­about the other.  You have been good—­oh! so good to me!  And I should tell you things; you are expecting me to explain.  It is only fair and honest that I should.  I know what is in your mind, and I only want you to wait—­until to-morrow.  Will you?  And I will tell you then, when we have found the grave.”

Involuntarily his hand sought Joanne’s.  For a single moment he felt the warm, sweet thrill of it in his own as he pressed it more closely to his arm.  Then he freed it, looking straight ahead.  A soft flush grew in Joanne’s cheeks.

“Do you care a great deal for riches?” he asked.  “Does the golden pot at the end of the rainbow hold out a lure for you?” He did not realize the strangeness of his question until their eyes met.  “Because if you don’t,” he added, smiling, “this adventure of ours isn’t going to look very exciting to you.”