“God!  Shall I never be able to bury Minetta Lane?” cried Enoch.

“Not until you dig the grave yourself, my dear!  Yours has been a case for a mind specialist, all these years, not a detective.  I, for one, refuse to let Minetta Lane hag ride me if it is possible to escape it.”  Suddenly she smiled again.  “I’ll admit I’m not at all Victorian in my attitude.”

“You couldn’t be anything that was not fine,” returned Enoch sadly.  “But I cannot bear to have you buoy yourself with false hopes.”

“A drowning woman grasps at straws, I suppose,” said Diana, a little brokenly.  “Good night, my dearest,” and Diana went into the tent, leaving Enoch to ponder heavily over the fire until the cold drove him to his blankets.

Breaking camp the next morning was dreary and arduous enough.  Snow was still falling, the mules were recalcitrant and a bitter wind had piled drifts in every direction.  The four travelers were in a subdued mood, although Enoch heartened himself considerably by urging Diana to remember that they had still to look forward to the trip down Bright Angel.

They floundered through the snow for two heavy hours before Diana looked back at Enoch to say,

“We’re only a mile from the cabin now, Enoch!”

“Only a mile!” exclaimed Enoch.  “Diana, I wonder what your father will say when he sees me!”

“He thinks you are two thousand miles from here!” laughed Diana.  “We’ll see what he will say.”

“And so,” murmured Enoch to himself, “any perfect journey is ended.”

BOOK IV

THE PHANTASM DESTROYED

CHAPTER XV

THE FIRING LINE AGAIN

“When I shall have given you up, Diana, I shall love my own solitude as never before.  For you will dwell there and he who has lovely thoughts is never lonely.”—­Enoch’s Diary.

The cabin was built of cedar logs.  Frank had added to it as necessity arose or his means permitted, and it sprawled pleasantly under the pines, as if it belonged there and enjoyed being there.  Na-che gave her peculiar, far-carrying call, some moments before the cabin came into view, and when the little cavalcade jingled up to the door, it was wide open, a ruddy faced, white-haired man standing before it.

“Hello, Diana!” he shouted.  “Where in seven thunders have you been!  You’re a week late!”

Then his eyes fastened wonderingly on Enoch’s face.  He came slowly across the porch and down the steps.  Enoch did not speak, and for a long moment the two men stared at each other while time turned back its hands for a quarter of a century.  Suddenly Frank’s hand shot out.

“My God!  It’s Enoch Huntingdon!”

“Yes, Frank, it’s he,” replied Enoch.

“Where on earth did you come from?  Come in, Mr. Secretary!  Come in!  Or do you want to go up to the hotel?”