Dorian was glad to remain, as he felt quite at home with these people, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman.  They had been good to Carlia.  Perhaps he could learn a little more about her.  The dinner was enjoyed very much.  Afterward, Mrs. Whitman, encouraged by Dorian’s attentiveness, poured into his willing ear all she had learned of the girl he was seeking; and before the woman ceased her freely-flowing talk, a most important item had been added to his knowledge of the case.  Carlia, it seems, had gone literally helpless to her downfall.  “Drugged” was the word Mrs. Whitman used.  The villainy of the foul deed moved the young man’s spirit to a fierce anger against the wretch who had planned it, and the same time his pity increased for the unfortunate victim.  As Dorian sat there and listened to the story which the woman had with difficulty obtained from the girl, he again suffered the remorse of conscience which comes from a realization of neglected duty and disregarded opportunity.  It was late in the afternoon before he got back to the town.

The next day Dorian made inquiries as to how he could reach the place indicated by the address, and he learned that it was a ranch house well up in the mountains.  There was a daily mail in that direction, except when the roads and the weather hindered; and it seemed that these would now be hinderances.  The threatened storm came, and with it high wind which piled the snow into deep, hard drifts, making the mountain road nearly impassible.  Dorian found the mail-carrier who told him that it would be impossible to make a start until the storm had ceased.  All day the snow fell, and all day Dorian fretted impatiently, and was tempted to once more go out to Mr. and Mrs. Whitman; but he did not.  Christmas was only three days off.  He could reach home and spend the day with his mother, but there would be considerable expense, and he felt as if he must be on the ground so that at the soonest possible moment he could continue on the trail which he had found.  The pleasure of the home Christmas must this time be sacrificed, for was not he in very deed going into the mountains to seek that which was lost.

The storm ceased toward evening, but the postman would not make a start until next morning.  Dorian joined him then, and mounted beside him.  The sky was not clear, the clouds only breaking and drifting about as if in doubt whether to go or to stay.  The road was heavy, and it was all the two horses could do to draw the light wagon with its small load.  Dorian wondered how Carlia had ever come that way.  Of course, it had been before the heavy snow, when traveling was not so bad.

“Who lives at this place?” asked Dorian of the driver, giving the box number Carlia had sent.

“That?  Oh, that’s John Hickson’s place.”

“A rancher?”

“No; not exactly.  He’s out here mostly for his health.”

“Does he live here in the mountains the year around?”