It was there in a sort of crevice, where the natural fall of the crumbling rocks had formed a shelter, that Courtland dropped upon his knees.  Not as a spot he had been seeking for, but as a haven to which he had been led.  He knelt, and all that Pat, standing, awed and uncovered, a few feet below, heard, was: 

“O God!  O God!”

He knelt there a long time, while Pat waited below, trying to think what to do.  The sun was beginning to sink, and a soft, pink summer light was glinting over the brown rocks and bits of moss and grasses.  The young leaves waved lightly overhead like children dancing in the morning, and something of the sweetness and beauty of the scene crept into Pat McCluny’s soul as he stood and waited before this Gethsemane gate for a man he loved to come forth.

At last he stepped up the rocks quietly and came and stood by Courtland, laying a gentle hand upon his shoulder.  “Come on, old man, it’s getting late.  About time we were going back!”

Courtland got up and looked at him in a dazed way, as if his soul had been bruised and he was only just recovering consciousness.  Without a word he turned and followed Pat back again to the city.  They did not talk on the way back.  Pat whistled a little, that was all.

When they reached the gates of the university Courtland turned and put out his hand, speaking in his own natural tone:  “Thanks awfully, old chap!  Sorry to have made you all this trouble!”

“That’s all right, pard,” said Pat, huskily, grasping the hand in his big fist.  “I saw you were up against it and I stuck around, that’s all!”

“I sha’n’t forget it!”

They parted to their rooms.  It was long past suppertime.  Pat went away by himself to think.

Over and over again to himself Courtland was saying, as he came to himself and began to realize what had come to him:  “It isn’t so much that I have lost her.  It is that she should have done it!”

Pat said nothing even to Tennelly about his walk with Courtland.  He figured that Courtland would rather they did not know.  He simply hovered near like a faithful dog, ready for whatever might turn up.  He was relieved to see that his friend came down to breakfast next morning, with a white, resolute face, and went about the order of the day quietly, as if everything were as usual.

Tennelly and Bill Ward were on the alert.  They had missed Courtland from the festivities the night before, but were so thoroughly occupied with their own part in the busy week that they had little time to question him.  Later in the day Tennelly began to wonder why Courtland had not brought Gila, as he intended, for the class play, but a note from Gila informed him that she was done with Paul Courtland forever, and that he would have to get some one else to further his uncle’s schemes, for she would not.  She intimated that she might explain further if he chose to call, and Tennelly made a point of