She gripped his hand convulsively and lowered her head; then turned and ran quickly up the steps, for she would not let him see the emotion, nor let him hear uncertain words form on her lips. In her last speech with him, Nora had lied; she had lied because she knew that to tell him she had packed her trunk and would leave on the morning train would bring thanks from him for what she had done for Ann Lytton; and Nora could not have stood this. From the man downstairs she had learned kindness, had learned that not all mistakes are sins, had learned that there is a judgment above that which denounces or commends by rule of thumb. He had set in her heart a desire to be possessed by him, had fed it unconsciously, had led her on and on to dream and plan; then, had unwittingly wrecked it. But he had made her too big, too fine, too gentle, to let jealousy control her for long. She had weakened just once, and that had served to set in Nora's heart a new resolve, a finer purpose than had ever found a place there before. And, as she stumbled up the narrow stairway, the tears scalding her cheeks, her soul was glad, was light, was happy, for she knew true greatness. Bayard roamed until after midnight; then went to his room in the hotel and slept brokenly until dawn. In those hours he chilled with fear and experienced flushes of temper, but behind it all he was resigned, willing to wait. He had done his all, he had held himself strictly within the bounds of justice as he conceived it, and beyond that he could do no more. The east had only commenced to silver when he rode out of town at a brisk gallop. He did not realize what going back to his ranch meant until he was actually on his way and then with every length of the road traveled, his apprehensions rose. It was no business of his he argued, what had transpired the day before; it was Ann's affair ... and her husband's. Yet, if he had left her alone, unprotected, and Lytton had done her harm, he knew that he could never escape reproaching himself, and his suffering would be in proportion to hers. Then, of the many, there was another disturbing possibility. Perhaps a complete reconciliation had followed. Perhaps he would ride into his dooryard to find Ann Lytton cooking breakfast for her husband, smiling and happy, refusing to meet his gaze, ashamed of what had been between them. He prodded his pony to greater speed with that thought. The sun was not yet up when he pulled his swift-breathing horse to a stop. The outer gate stood open, and, as he rode through, his face clouded slightly with annoyance over the unusual occurrence, but when he looked to the horse corral and saw that it, too, was open, and empty, that Abe was gone, his annoyance became fear. He spurred the tired pony across the yard and flung off before the house with eyes on that portion of the kitchen which was visible through the door. Then, stopped, stood still, and listened.