“And look!” she cried, after a moment.  “A double rainbow!  See how it spans the Wenatchee!  It’s a promise.”  And the turquoise lights shone once more in her eyes.  “Here in this desert, at last, I may come to my ’pot of gold.’”

“You mean,” responded Tisdale, “now you have seen the spring, Weatherbee’s project seems possible to you.  Well, I have reconsidered, too.  I shall not outbid you.  That would favor Mrs. Weatherbee too much.  And my interests are going to keep me in Alaska indefinitely.  I should be obliged to leave the plans in the hands of a manager, and I had rather trust them to you.”

Miss Armitage did not answer directly.  She was watching the arch, painted higher now, less brilliantly, on the lifting film.  The light had gone out of her face.  All the bench was in shadow; in the valley below a twilight indistinctness had fallen.  Then suddenly once more Cerberus stood forth like a beast of brass.  She shivered.

“It isn’t possible,” she said.  “It isn’t possible.  Even if I dared—­for David’s sake—­to assume the responsibility, I haven’t the money to carry the project through.”

Tisdale stopped and swung around.  They had reached the flat rock under the sentinel pine tree.  “Did you know David Weatherbee?” he asked.

She was silent.  He put his hands in his pockets and stood regarding her with his upward look from under slightly frowning brows.  “So you knew David,” he went on.  “In California, I presume, before he went to Alaska.  But why didn’t you tell me so?”

She waited another moment.  In the great stillness Hollis heard her labored breathing.  She put out her hand, steadying herself on the bole of the pine, then:  “I’ve wanted to tell you,” she began.  “I’ve tried to—­but—­it was impossible to make you understand.  I—­I hadn’t the courage.”

Her voice fluted and broke.  The last word was almost a whisper.  She stood before Tisdale with veiled eyes, breath still coming hard and quick, the lovely color deepening and paling in her face, like a woman awaiting judgment.  And it came over him in a flash, with the strength of conviction, that this beautiful, inscrutable girl wished him to know she had loved Weatherbee.  Incredible as it seemed, she had been set aside for the Spanish woman.  And she had learned about David’s project; he himself perhaps had told her years ago in California.  And though his wife had talked with Morganstein about platting the land into five-acre tracts to dispose of quickly, this woman had desired to see the property with a view to carrying out his plans.  That was why she had continued the journey from Snoqualmie Pass alone.  That was why she had braved the mountain drive with him.  She had loved Weatherbee.  This truth, sinking slowly, stirred his inner consciousness and, wrenched in a rising commotion, something far down in the depths of him lost hold.  He had presumed to think, in the infinite scheme of things, this one