“I’m not a society man,” said Sanders lamely.

He could not explain that the shadow of the prison walls was a barrier he could not cross; that they rose to bar him from all the joy and happiness of young life.

“Who in Mexico’s talkin’ about society?  I said come up and eat supper with me and Joy and Keith.  If you don’t come, I’m goin’ to be good and sore.  I’ll not stand for it, you darned old killjoy.”

“I’ll go,” answered the invited man.

He went, not because he wanted to go, but because he could not escape without being an ungracious boor.

Joyce flew to meet her father, eyes eager, hands swift to caress his rough face and wrinkled coat.  She bubbled with joy at his return, and when he told her that his news was of the best the long lashes of the brown eyes misted with tears.  The young man in the background was struck anew by the matronly tenderness of her relation to her father.  She hovered about him as a mother does about her son returned from the wars.

“I’ve brought company for supper, honey,” Emerson told her.

She gave Dave her hand, flushed and smiling.  “I’ve been so worried,” she explained.  “It’s fine to know the news is good.  I’ll want to hear it all.”

“We’ve got the stolen money back, Joy,” exploded her father.  “We know who took it—­Dug Doble and that cowboy Shorty and Miller.”

“But I thought Miller—­”

“He escaped.  We caught him and brought him back to town with us.”  Crawford seized the girl by the shoulders.  He was as keen as a boy to share his pleasure.  “And Joy—­better news yet.  Miller confessed he killed George Doble.  Dave didn’t do it at all.”

Joyce came to the young man impulsively, hand outstretched.  She was glowing with delight, eyes kind and warm and glad.  “That’s the best yet.  Oh, Mr. Sanders, isn’t it good?”

His impassive face gave no betrayal of any happiness he might feel in his vindication.  Indeed, something almost sardonic in its expression chilled her enthusiasm.  More than the passing of years separated them from the days when he had shyly but gayly wiped dishes for her in the kitchen, when he had worshiped her with a boy’s uncritical adoration.

Sanders knew it better than she, and cursed the habit of repression that had become a part of him in his prison days.  He wanted to give her happy smile for smile.  But he could not do it.  All that was young and ardent and eager in him was dead.  He could not let himself go.  Even when emotions flooded his heart, no evidence of it reached his chill eyes and set face.