The other turned his head to see a flash of light that winked through the dull, smoky veil, with startling clearness.  He smiled and turned again to his saddle.  “You’ll often see that,” he said.  “It’s the sun striking some bright object that happens to be at just the right angle to hit you with the reflection.  A bit of new tin on a roof, a window, an automobile shield, anything bright enough, will do the trick.  Come, we’ll go back to the trail and follow the break the other way.”

In the dusk of the evening, at the close of the long, hard day, as Brian Oakley and Aaron King were starting down the Oak Knoll trail on their return to the ranch, the Ranger uttered an exclamation.  His quick eyes had caught the twinkling gleam of a light at Sibyl’s old home, far below, across the canyon.  The next instant, the chestnut, followed by his four-footed companion, was going down the steep trail at a pace that sent the gravel flying and forced the artist, unaccustomed to such riding, to cling desperately to the saddle.  Up the canyon road, the Ranger sent the chestnut at a run, nor did he draw rein as they crossed the rough boulder-strewn wash.  Plunging through the tumbling water of the creek, the horses scrambled up the farther bank, and dashed along the old, weed-grown road, into the little clearing They were met by Czar with a bark of welcome.  A moment later, they were greeted by Conrad Lagrange and Myra Willard.

“But why don’t you stay down at the ranch, Myra?” asked the Ranger, when he had told them that his day’s work was without results.

“Listen, Mr. Oakley,” returned the woman with the disfigured face.  “I know Sibyl too well not to understand the possibilities of her temperament.  Natures, fine and sensitive as hers, though brave and cool and strong under ordinary circumstances, under peculiar mental stress such as I believe caused her to leave us, are easily thrown out of balance.  We know nothing.  The child may be wandering, alone—­dazed and helpless under the shock of a cruel and malicious attempt to wreck her happiness.  Only some terrible stress of emotion could have caused her to leave me as she did.  If she is alone, out here in the hills, there is a chance that—­even in her distracted state of mind—­she will find her way to her old home.”  The woman paused, and then, in the silence, added hesitatingly, “I—­I may say that I know from experience the possibilities of which I speak.”

The three men bowed their heads.  Brian Oakley said softly, “Myra, you’ve got more heart and more sense than all of us put together.”  To Conrad Lagrange, he added, “You will stay here with Miss Willard?”

“Yes,” answered the novelist, “I would be little good in the hills, at such work as you are doing, Brian.  I will do what I can, here.”