hand, but pointing to the hearth.  “Yes,” said Lance, with the faintest of smiles on the palest of faces.  “You feel sorry for any one that’s dead, don’t you?” Fairley nodded again.  Lance looked at him with eyes as remote as his own, shook his head, and turned away.  When he reached the door he laid his revolver carefully, and, indeed, somewhat ostentatiously, upon a chair.  But when he stepped from the threshold he stopped a moment in the light of the open door to examine the lock of a small derringer which he drew from his pocket.  He then shut the door carefully, and with the same slow, hesitating step, felt his way into the night.

He had but one idea in his mind, to find some lonely spot; some spot where the footsteps of man would never penetrate, some spot that would yield him rest, sleep, obliteration, forgetfulness, and, above all, where he would be forgotten.  He had seen such places; surely there were many,—­where bones were picked up of dead men who had faded from the earth and had left no other record.  If he could only keep his senses now he might find such a spot, but he must be careful, for her little feet went everywhere, and she must never see him again alive or dead.  And in the midst of his thoughts, and the darkness, and the storm, he heard a voice at his side, “Lance, how long you have been!”

* * * * *

Left to himself, the old man again fell into a vacant contemplation of the dead body before him, until a stronger blast swept down like an avalanche upon the cabin, burst through the ill-fastened door and broken chimney, and, dashing the ashes and living embers over the floor, filled the room with blinding smoke and flame.  Fairley rose with a feeble cry, and then, as if acted upon by some dominant memory, groped under the bed until he found his buckskin bag and his precious crystal, and fled precipitately from the room.  Lifted by this second shock from his apathy, he returned to the fixed idea of his life,—­the discovery and creation of the diamond,—­and forgot all else.  The feeble grasp that his shaken intellect kept of the events of the night relaxed, the disguised Lance, the story of his son, the murder, slipped into nothingness; there remained only the one idea, his nightly watch by the diamond pit.  The instinct of long habit was stronger than the darkness or the onset of the storm, and he kept his tottering way over stream and fallen timber until he reached the spot.  A sudden tremor seemed to shake the lambent flame that had lured him on.  He thought he heard the sound of voices; there were signs of recent disturbance,—­footprints in the sawdust!  With a cry of rage and suspicion, Fairley slipped into the pit and sprang toward the nearest opening.  To his frenzied fancy it had been tampered with, his secret discovered, the fruit of his long labors stolen from him that very night.  With superhuman strength he began to open the pit, scattering the half-charred logs right and left, and