The girl laughed.  “I admit that I was tempted,” she said.  “I might have known that you put the rifle within my reach to try me.”

“I thought it would save you needless disappointment to make things clear at once,” he answered.  “Breakfast is ready.”

The incident threw a strong light upon the character with which Sibyl had to deal.  She realized, more than ever, that her only hope lay in so winning this man’s sympathies and friendship that he would turn against whoever had forced him into his present position.  The struggle was to be one of those silent battles of the spirit, where the forces that war are not seen but only felt, and where those who fight must often fight with smiling faces.  The girl’s part was to enlist her captor to fight for her, against himself.  She saw, as clearly, the need of approaching her object with caution.  Eager to know who it was that ruled this man, and by what peculiar power a character so strong could be so subjected, she dared not ask.  Hour after hour, as they journeyed deeper and deeper into the mountain wilds, she watched and waited for some sign that her companion’s mood would make it safe for her to approach him.  Meanwhile, she exercised all her womanly tact to lead him to forget his distasteful position, and so to make his uncongenial task as pleasant as possible.

The girl did not realize how far her decision, in itself, aroused the admiring sympathy of her captor.  Her coolness, self-possession, and bravery in meeting the situation with calm, watchful readiness, rather than with hysterical moaning and frantic pleading, did more than she realized toward accomplishing her purpose.

During that long forenoon, she sought to engage her guide in conversation, quite as though they were making a pleasure trip that was mutually agreeable.  The man—­as though he also desired his thoughts removed as far as might be from his real mission—­responded readily, and succeeded in making himself a really interesting companion.  Only once, did the girl venture to approach dangerous ground.

“Really,” she said, “I wish I knew your name.  It seems so stupid not to know how to address you.  Is that asking too much?”

The man did not answer for some time, and the girl saw his face clouded with somber thought.

“I beg your pardon,” she said gently.  “I—­I ought not to have asked.”

“My name is Henry Marston, Miss Andres,” he said deliberately.  “But it is not the name by which I am known these days,” he added bitterly.  “It is an honorable name, and I would like to hear it again—­” he paused—­“from you.”

Sibyl returned gently, “Thank you, Mr. Marston—­believe me, I do appreciate your confidence, and—­” she in turn hesitated—­“and I will keep the trust.”

By noon, they had reached Granite Peak in the Galenas, having come by an unmarked way, through the wild country around the head of Clear Creek Canyon.

They had finished lunch, when Marston, looking at his watch, took a small mirror from his pocket and stood gazing expectantly toward the distant valley where Fairlands lay under the blue haze.  Presently, a flash of light appeared; then another and another.  It was the signal that Aaron King had seen and to which he had called Brian Oakley’s attention, that first day of their search.