The sharp words acted like a dash of cold water in the young man’s face.  Unconsciously, he straightened in his saddle.  “Thank you, Brian.  I understand.  You can depend upon me.”

“Good boy!” came the hearty and instant approval.  “If you see anything, go to it; leaving a note here, under a stone on top of this rock; I’ll find it to-night, when I come back.  If nothing shows up, stay until dark, and then go down to Carleton’s.  I’ll be in late.  The rest of the party will stay over at Pine Glen.”

Alone on the peak where he had sat with Sibyl the day of their last climb, Aaron King watched for the buzzards’ telltale, circling flight—­and tried not to think.

It was one o’clock when the artist—­resting his eyes for a moment, after a long, searching look through the glass—­caught, again, that flash of light in the blue haze that lay over Fairlands in the distant valley.  Brian Oakley had said,—­when they had seen it that first day of the search,—­that it was a common sight; but the artist, his mind preoccupied, watched the point of light with momentary, idle interest.

Suddenly, he awoke to the fact that there seemed to be a timed regularity in the flashes.  Into his mind came the memory of something he had read of the heliograph, and of methods of signalling with mirrors Closely, now, he watched—­three flashes in quick succession—­pause—­two flashes—­pause—­one flash—­pause—­one flash—­pause—­two flashes—­pause—­three flashes—­pause.  For several minutes the artist waited, his eyes fixed on the distant spot under the haze.  Then the flashes began again, repeating the same order:  —–­ —­ — — —­ —–.

At the last flash, the man sprang to his feet, and searched the mountain peaks and spurs behind him.  On lonely Granite Peak, at the far end of the Galena Range, a flash of light caught his eye—­then another and another.  With an exclamation, he lifted his glass.  He could distinguish nothing but the peak from which had come the flashes.  He turned toward the valley to see a long flash and then—­only the haze and the dark spot that he knew to be the orange groves about Fairlands.

Aaron King sank, weak and trembling, against the rock.  What should he do?  What could he do?  The signals might mean much.  They might mean nothing.  Brian Oakley’s words that morning, came to him; “I am recognizing every possibility, and letting nothing nothing, get away from me.”  Instantly, he was galvanized into life.  Idle thinking, wondering, conjecturing could accomplish nothing.

Riding as fast as possible down to the boulder beside the trail, where he was to leave his message, he wrote a note and placed it under the rock.  Then he set out, to ride the fire-break along the top of the range, toward the distant Granite Peak.  An hour’s riding took him to the end of the fire-break, and he saw that from there on he must go afoot.

Tying the bridle-reins over the saddle-horn, and fastening a note to the saddle, in case any one should find the horse, he turned the animal’s head back the way he had come, and, with a sharp blow, started it forward.  He knew that the horse—­one of Carleton’s—­would probably make its way home.  Turning, he set his face toward the lonely peak; carrying his canteen and what was left of his lunch.