Fear having reached its limit, his mind swung slowly back to reason. . . .  There was, he told himself, no occasion for panic.  Li Ho might have exaggerated.  Besides, a danger known is almost a danger met And Li Ho knew.  Li Ho would be there.  When, Desire came he would guard her. . . .  A few hours only . . . until he could get to her. . . .  She was safe for tonight at least.  She would not attempt to cross the Inlet, until the morning.  She would have to hire a launch—­a thing no woman would attempt to do at that hour of night.  She was in no hurry.  She would stay somewhere in the city and get herself taken to Farr’s Landing in the morning. . . .  Through the day, too, she would be safe . . . and, to-morrow night, he, Benis, would be there. . . .  But not until late . . . not until after the moon . . . better not think of the moon . . . think of Li Ho . . .  Li Ho would surely watch . . .

He lay in his berth and told himself this over and over.  The train swung on.  The cool, high air of the mountains crept through the screened window.  They were swinging through a land of awful and gigantic beauty.  The white moon turned the snow peaks into glittering fountains from which pure light cascaded down, down into the blackness at their base . . . one more morning . . . one more day . . .  Vancouver at night . . . a launch . . .  Desire!

Meanwhile one must keep steady.  The professor drew from its yellow wrapping the little note-book which had been the second of Li Ho’s enclosures.  It had belonged, if Li Ho’s information were correct, to Desire’s mother—­a diary, probably.  “Deceased lady write as per day.”  Spence hesitated.  It was Desire’s property.  He felt a delicacy in examining it.  But so many mistakes had already been made through want of knowledge, he dared not risk another one.  And Li Ho had probably other than sentimental reasons for sending the book.

He shut out the mountains and the moonlight, and clicking on the berth-light, turned the dog-eared pages reverently.  Only a few were written upon.  It was a diary, as he had guessed, or rather brief bits of one.  The writing was small but very clear in spite of the fading ink.  The entries began abruptly.  It was plain that there had been another book of which this was a continuation.

The first date was November 1st—­no year given.

“It is raining.  The Indians say the winter will be very wet.  Desire plays in the rain and thrives.  She is a lovely child, high-spirited--not like me.”

“November 10th—­He was worse this month.  I think he gets steadily a little worse.  I dare not say what I think.  He would say that I had fancies.  No one else sees anything save harmless eccentricity,—­ except perhaps Li Ho.  But I am terrified.

“December 7th—­I tried once more to get away.  He found me quickly.  It isn’t easy for a woman with a child to hide—­without money.  For myself I can stand it—­my own fault!  But—­my little girl!