As the days passed and Bruce saw Lytton steadying, gaining physical and mental force, his composure, already disturbed, was badly shaken. He tried to tell himself that what must be, must be; that brooding would help matters not at all, that he must keep up his courage and surrender gracefully for the sake of the woman he loved, keeping her peace of mind sacred. At other times, he went over the doctrine of unimpeachable motive, of individual duty that the clergyman had expounded, but some inherent reluctance to adopt the new, some latent conservatism in him rebelled at thought of man's crossing man where a woman was at stake. He did not know, but he formed the third being who was held to a rigid course by conscience! Of the four entangled by this situation, Ned Lytton alone was without scruples, without a code of ethics. Between the two men was the same attitude that had prevailed from the first. Bayard kept Lytton in restraint by his physical and mental dominance. He gave up attempting to persuade, attempting to appeal to the spark of manhood left in his patient, after that day when Lytton stole and drank the whiskey. He relied entirely on his superiority and frankly kept his charge in subjection. When strength came back to the debauched body, Bayard told himself, he could begin to plead, to argue for his results; not before. For the greater portion of the time Lytton was morose, quarrelsome. Now and again came flashes of a better nature, but invariably they were followed by spiteful, reasonless outbursts and remonstrances. To these Bayard listened with tolerance, accepting the other man's curses and insults as he would the reasonless pet of a child, and each time that Ned showed a desire to act as a normal human being, to interest himself in life or the things about him, the big rancher was on the alert to give information, to encourage thought that would take the sick man's mind from his own difficulties. One factor of the life at the ranch evidently worried Lytton, but of it he did not speak. This was the manner with which Bayard kept one room, the room in which he slept, to himself. The door through which he entered never stood open, Lytton was never asked to cross the sill. Bayard never referred to it in conversation. A secret chamber, it was, rendered mysterious by the fact that its occupant took pains that it should never be mentioned. Lytton instinctively respected this attitude and never asked a question touching on it, though at times his annoyance at being so completely excluded from a portion of the house was evident. Once Lytton, sitting in the shade of the ash tree, watched Bayard riding in from the valley on his sorrel horse. The animal nickered as his master let him head for the well beside the house.