He saw Marjorie and her mother drive away, saw Gray wave to them and turn back to the house, and then he was so shocked at the quick change to haggard worry that draped his friend like a cloak from head to foot that he could hardly call to him.  And so Jason waited till Gray had passed within, and then he leaped the fence and made for the portico.  Gray himself answered his ring and with a flashing smile hurried forward when he saw Jason in the doorway.  The two clasped hands and for one swift instant searched each other’s eyes with questions too deep and delicate to be put into words—­each wondering how much the other might know, each silent if the other did not know.  For Gray had learned from his father about Steve Hawn, and Jason’s suspicions of Steve he had kept to himself.

“My father would like to have you as our guest, Jason, while I am here,” Gray said with some embarrassment, “but he doesn’t feel like letting you take the risk.”

Jason threw back the lapel of his coat that covered his badge as deputy.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said with a smile, “but I think I’d better stay at home.  I’ll be on hand when the trouble comes.”

Gray, too, smiled.

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

“How is the colonel?”

“He’s pretty bad.  He wants to see you.”

Jason lowered his voice when they entered the hallway.  “The soldiers have reached town to-day.  If there’s anything going to be done, it will probably be done to-night.”

“I know.”

“We won’t tell the colonel.”

“No.”

Then Gray led the way to the sick-room and softly opened the door.  In a great canopied bed lay Colonel Pendleton with his face turned toward the window, through which came the sun and air, the odors and bird-songs of spring-time, and when that face turned, Jason was shocked by its waste and whiteness and by the thinness of the hand that was weakly thrust out to him.  But the fire of the brilliant eyes burned as ever; there was with him, prone in bed, still the same demeanor of stately courtesy; and Jason felt his heart melt and then fill as always with admiration for the man, the gentleman, who unconsciously had played such a part in the moulding of his own life, and as always with the recognition of the unbridgable chasm between them—­between even him and Gray.  The bitter resentment he had first felt against this chasm was gone now, for now he understood and accepted.  As men the three were equal, but father and son had three generations the start of him.  He could see in them what he lacked himself, and what they were without thought he could only consciously try to be—­and he would keep on trying.  The sick man turned his face again to the window and the morning air.  When he turned again he was smiling faintly and his voice was friendly and affectionate: