With another grip of the hand he left Demorest to his thoughts.  In the first excitement of meeting his old partners, and in the later discovery of the forgery, Demorest had been diverted from his old sorrow, and for the time had forgotten it in sympathetic interest with the present.  But, to his horror, when alone again, he found that interest growing as remote and vapid as the stories they had laughed over at the table, and even the excitement of the forged letter and its consequences began to be as unreal, as impotent, as shadowy, as the memory of the attempted robbery in the old cabin on that very spot.  He was ashamed of that selfishness which still made him cling to this past, so much his own, that he knew it debarred him from the human sympathy of his comrades.  And even Barker, in whose courtship and marriage he had tried to resuscitate his youthful emotions and condone his selfish errors—­even the suggestion of his unhappiness only touched him vaguely.  He would no longer be a slave to the Past, or the memory that had deluded him a few hours ago.  He walked to the window; alas, there was the same prospect that had looked upon his dreams, had lent itself to his old visions.  There was the eternal outline of the hills; there rose the steadfast pines; there was no change in them.  It was this surrounding constancy of nature that had affected him.  He turned away and entered the bedroom.  Here he suddenly remembered that the mother of this vague enemy, Van Loo,—­for his feeling towards him was still vague, as few men really hate the personality they don’t know,—­had only momentarily vacated it, and to his distaste of his own intrusion was now added the profound irony of his sleeping in the same bed lately occupied by the mother of the man who was suspected of having forged his name.  He smiled faintly and looked around the apartment.  It was handsomely furnished, and although it still had much of the characterlessness of the hotel room, it was distinctly flavored by its last occupant, and still brightened by that mysterious instinct of the sex which is inevitable.  Where a man would have simply left his forgotten slippers or collars there was a glass of still unfaded flowers; the cold marble top of the dressing-table was littered with a few linen and silk toilet covers; and on the mantel-shelf was a sheaf of photographs.  He walked towards them mechanically, glanced at them abstractedly, and then stopped suddenly with a beating heart.  Before him was the picture of his past, the photograph of the one woman who had filled his life!

He cast a hurried glance around the room as if he half expected to see the original start up before him, and then eagerly seized it and hurried with it to the light.  Yes! yes!  It was she,—­she as she had lived in his actual memory; she as she had lived in his dream.  He saw her sweet eyes, but the frightened, innocent trouble had passed from them; there was the sensitive elegance of her graceful figure in evening dress; but the figure was fuller and maturer.  Could he be mistaken by some wonderful resemblance acting upon his too willing brain?  He turned the photograph over.  No; there on the other side, written in her own childlike hand, endeared and familiar to his recollection, was her own name, and the date!  It was surely she!