Thus by gradual stages he got back to David, and he struggled for the motive which lay behind every decisive human act.  A man who followed a course by which he had nothing to gain and everything to lose was either a fool or was actuated by some profound unselfishness.  To save a life?  But with all the resources Clark could have commanded, added to his personal popularity, a first degree sentence would have been unlikely.  Not a life, then, but perhaps something greater than a life.  A man’s soul.

It came to him, then, in a great light of comprehension, the thing David had tried to do; to take this waster and fugitive, the slate of his mind wiped clean by shock and illness, only his childish memories remaining, and on it to lead him to write a new record.  To take the body he had found, and the always untouched soul, and from them to make a man.

And with that comprehension came the conviction, too, that David had succeeded.  He had indeed made a man.

He ate absently, consulting his railroad schedule and formulating the arguments he meant to use against Dick’s determination to give himself up.  He foresaw a struggle there, but he himself held one or two strong cards—­the ruthless undoing of David’s work, the involving of David for conspiring against the law.  And Dick’s own obligation to the girl at home.

He was more at ease in the practical arrangements.  An express went through on the main line at midnight, and there was a local on the branch line at eight.  But the local train, the railway station, too, were full of possible dangers.  After some thought he decided to get a car, drive down to the main line with Dick, and then send the car back.

He went out at once and made an arrangement for a car, and on returning notified the clerk that he was going to leave, and asked to have his bill made out.  After some hesitation he said:  “I’ll pay three-twenty too, while I’m at it.  Friend of mine there, going with me.  Yes, up to to-night.”

As he turned away he saw the short, heavy figure of Wilkins coming in.  He stood back and watched.  The sheriff went to the desk, pulled the register toward him and ran over several pages of it.  Then he shoved it away, turned and saw him.

“Been away, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.  I took a little horseback trip into the mountains.  My knees are still not on speaking terms.”

The sheriff chuckled.  Then he sobered.

“Come and sit down,” he said.  “I’m going to watch who goes in and out of here for a while.”

Bassett followed him unwillingly to two chairs that faced the desk and the lobby.  He had the key of Dick’s room in his pocket, but he knew that if he wakened he could easily telephone and have his door unlocked.  But that was not his only anxiety.  He had a sudden conviction that the sheriff’s watch was connected with Dick himself.  Wilkins, from a friendly and gregarious fellow-being, had suddenly grown to sinister proportions in his mind.