Ford was leaning against the centered reversing-lever, and his face was gloomy again.

“Possibly I am afraid,” he suggested.

“You should be more afraid of dishonor than of—­of the other things.  Do you suppose Mr. North will be content with your resignation now?”

Ford looked up quickly.  Here was a new revelation—­an unsuspected facet of the precious gem.  He could hardly believe that this steady-voiced, far-seeing young woman was the insouciant, school-girlish—­though none the less lovable—­young person with whom he had tramped to the wind-swept summit of Plug Pass in the golden heart of the yesterday.

“You mean—?” he began.

“I mean that you will be discredited; disgraced if possible.  Are you sure you haven’t been doing anything over here that you wouldn’t want Uncle Sidney to find out?”

“Not consciously, you may be sure,” he asserted unhesitatingly.

“Think; think hard,” she urged.  “Is there nothing at all?”

He could not help smiling lovingly at her scarce-concealed anxiety—­though it was merely the anxiety of a noble soul unwilling to stand by and see injustice done.

“My methods never get very far underground,” he averred.  “Not far enough for my own safety, Frisbie says.  If I had been keeping a diary, I think I should be quite willing to let Mr. Colbrith read it—­or print it, if he cared to.”

“And yet there is something,” she asserted, and the straight brows went together in a little frown of perplexity.  “You don’t ask me how I know:  I’m going to tell you, Mr. Ford—­though it’s rather shameful.  Three days ago, while we were in Denver, Mr. North came down to the car to see Uncle Sidney.”

“Yes?” he encouraged.

“They were closeted in Uncle Sidney’s state-room for a long time,” she went on.  “I—­I was walking with Miss Van Bruce, up and down on the station platform beside the Nadia, Uncle Sidney had told me not to go very far away because we were likely to start at any moment.  The—­the car windows were open—­”

Her embarrassment was growing painfully apparent, and Ford came to the rescue.

“You were not even constructively to blame,” he hastened to say.  “They must surely have seen you passing and repassing, and if they wished for privacy they might have closed the windows.”

“I didn’t hear much:  only a word or two, now and then.  They were talking about you and brother; and—­” She stopped short and laid her hand on the throttle-lever of the big engine:  “What did you say this was for?” she asked ingenuously.

Ford’s up-glance of surprise was answered by a glimpse of Penfield sauntering past on the other side of the track.  She could not have seen, but she had doubtless heard his footsteps on the gravel.

“It’s the throttle,” said Ford, answering her question.  And then:  “Please go on:  he is out of hearing.”

“They were speaking of you and brother; and—­and of me.  I can’t repeat a single sentence entire, but I know Mr. North was accusing you in some way, and apparently implicating me.  Perhaps I listened in self-defense.  Do you think I did, Mr. Ford?”