“Good luck,” she called through the open window as the train pulled out.  “Beat Cole, Kirby.”

“Good luck to you,” he answered.  “Write me soon as you find out how things are.”

But as he walked from the station his heart misgave him.  Why had he let her go alone, knowing as he did how swift she blazed to passion when wrong was done those she loved?  It was easy enough to say that she had refused to let him go with her, though he had several times offered.  The fact remained that she might need a friend at hand, might need him the worst way.

All through breakfast he was ridden by the fear of trouble on her horizon.  Comrades stopped to slap him on the back and wish him good luck in the finals, and though he made the proper answers it was with the surface of a mind almost wholly preoccupied with another matter.

While he was rising from the table he made a decision in the flash of an eye.  He would join Rose in Denver at once.  Already dozens of cars were taking the road.  There would be a vacant place in some one of them.

He found a party just setting out for Denver and easily made arrangements to take the unfilled seat in the tonneau.

By the middle of the afternoon he was at a boarding-house on Cherokee Street inquiring for Miss Rose McLean.  She was out, and the landlady did not know when she would be back.  Probably after her sister got home from work.

Lane wandered down to Curtis Street, sat through a part of a movie, then restlessly took his way up Seventeenth.  He had an uncle and two cousins living in Denver.  With the uncle he was on bad terms, and with his cousins on no terms at all.  It had been ten years since he had seen either James Cunningham, Jr., or his brother Jack.  Why not call on them and renew acquaintance?

He went into a drug-store and looked the name up in a telephone book.  His cousin James had an office in the Equitable Building.  He hung the book up on the hook and turned to go.  As he did so he came face to face with Rose McLean.

“You—­here!” she cried.

“Yes, I—­I had business in Denver,” he explained.

“Like fun you had!  You came because—­” She stopped abruptly, struck by another phase of the situation.  “Did you leave Cheyenne without riding to-day?”

“I didn’t want to ride.  I’m fed up on ridin’.”

“You threw away the championship and a thousand-dollar prize to—­to—­”

“You’re forgettin’ Cole Sanborn,” he laughed.  “No, honest, I came on business.  But since I’m here—­say, Rose, where can we have a talk?  Let’s go up to the mezzanine gallery at the Albany.  It’s right next door.”

He took her into the Albany Hotel.  They stepped out of the elevator at the second floor and he found a settee in a corner where they might be alone.  It struck him that the shadows in her eyes had deepened.  She was, he could see plainly, laboring under a tension of repressed excitement.  The misery of her soul leaped out at him when she looked his way.