“He was never on, and I have no list,” says the manhunter grittingly.  “But I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Beckham,” passing the signed check to the other, “I shall begin where you leave off, and end by finding my man.”

“I hope you do, I’m sure,” says the Pinkerton, moved by the liberal figure of the check.  “And if there’s anything more the Agency can do—­”

In the afternoon of the same day, when the self-dismissed detective was speeding northward toward Chicago and the car-burners, Tom saddled the bay and rode long and hard over a bad mountain cart track to the hamlet of Pine Knob.  It was a measure of his abandonment that he was breaking his promise to Ardea; and another of his reckless singleness of purpose that he rode brazenly through the little settlement to Nan’s door, dismounted and entered as if he had right.

The cabin was untenanted, but he found Nan sitting on the slab step of a rude porch at the back, nursing her child.  She greeted him without rising, and her eyes were downcast.

“I’ve come for justice, Nan,” he said, without preface, seating himself on the end of the step and flicking the dust from his leggings with his riding-crop.  “You know what they’re saying about us—­about you and me.  I want to know who to thank for it:  what is the man’s name?”

She did not reply at once, and when she lifted the dark eyes to his they were full of suffering, like those of an animal under the lash.

“I nev’ said hit was you,” she averred, after a time.

“No; but you might as well.  Everybody believes it, and you haven’t denied it.  Who is the man?”

“I cayn’t tell,” she said simply.

“You mean you won’t tell.”

“No, I cayn’t; I’m livin’ on his money, Tom-Jeff.”

“No, you are not.  What makes you say that?”

“She told me I was.”

“Who?  Miss Dabney?”

Her nod was affirmative, and he went on:  “Tell me just what she said; word for word, if you can remember.”

The answer came brokenly.

“I was ashamed—­you don’t believe hit, but hit’s so.  I allowed it was her money.  When I made out like I’d run off, she said, ’No; it’s his money ‘at’s bein’ spent for you, and you have a right to it.’”

Tom was silent for a time; then he said the other necessary word.

“She believes I am the man who wronged you, Nan.  It was my money.”

The woman half rose and then sat down again, rocking the child in her arms.

“You’re lyin’ to me, Tom-Jeff Gordon.  Hit’s on’y a lie to make me tell!” she panted.

“No, it’s the truth.  I was sorry for you and helped you because—­well, because of the old times.  But everybody has misunderstood, even Miss Dabney.”

Silence again; the silence of the high mountain plateau and the whispering pines.  Then she asked softly: 

“Was you aimin’ to marry her, Tom-Jeff?”

His voice was somber.  “I’ve never had the beginning of a chance; and besides, she is promised to another man.”