“I know.  Tommy Garton told me about it.  And I know what the thing was which he required of you.  I did not thank you for your answer to him, Conniston, for we both know that you did only your duty.  But I know what it meant, I know what your stand cost you, and I am prouder to have known you, to feel that outside of our business relations I can say that William Conniston, Junior, is my friend, than I have ever been in my life to have known any other man!”

His voice was deep with sincerity, alive with an intensity of feeling which drove a warm flush into Conniston’s tanned face.

“As you say, I did only what a man must do were he not a scoundrel.  But, too, as you say, it means a great deal.  It means that when you will have paid me my wages I shall have not another cent in the world.  And being virtually penniless, still my chief purpose in coming to you this evening has been to tell you that I love Argyl, and that I want your consent to ask her to marry me.”

For a moment the older man made no reply.  For a little he drew thoughtfully at his cigar, and as in its glow his grave face was thrown into relief Conniston saw that there was a sad droop at the corners of the firm mouth.

“You have told Argyl?” he finally said.

“Yes.  I told her that day in the desert.  I had meant to wait until the work was done, until she could have seen that I was honestly trying to live down my utter uselessness.  But—­I told her then.”

“And she?”

“She said that I might speak to you.”

“I am selfish, Conniston—­selfish.  Argyl has been daughter to me and son, and the best friend I have ever had.  I shall miss her.  But if she loves you—­Well,” with a gentle smile, “she is too true a woman to hold back from your side, no matter what I might say.  And since she must leave me some day, I am very glad that you came into her life.  I congratulate you, my boy.”

While the two men were talking and waiting for Argyl to come in, Tommy Garton, his new legs discarded for the day, was lying on his cot in the back room of the general office, blowing idle puffs of cigarette-smoke at the lamp-chimney, watching the smoke as the hot draft from the flame sent it ceilingward.  He was thinking of the talk he had had with Conniston, how Conniston had gone to Argyl’s father.

“After all,” he grunted to himself, as he pinched out his cigarette and lighted another, “they were made for each other.  And I lose my one chief bet this incarnation.  Hello!  Come in!” For there had come a sudden sharp knocking at the outer door.

The door was pushed open and a big man, dusty from riding, came slowly into the front room, cast a quick glance about him, and came on into Garton’s room.  Garton started as he saw who the man was.

“Hello, Wallace!” he said, sitting up and putting out his hand.  “What in the world brings you here?”

Wallace laughed, returned the greeting, and sat down upon the cot across the room.  And as he came into the circle of light thrown out by the lamp a nickeled star shone for a moment from under his coat, which was carelessly flung back.