"Will you do me the favor to look at this before you go?" he asked, drawing a folded paper from the inner pocket of his coat and handing it to her. It was a page from one of those so-called _Directories_ which small grafters go about devising in small cities and out-on-the-edge communities, in which the pictures of the leading citizens are printed for a consideration. The page had been folded across the center; it was broken and worn. "You may see the person whose portrait is presented there," said he, "and if you should see him, you would confer a favor by letting me know." "Why, I saw him yesterday!" she exclaimed in surprise. "It's Jerry Boyle!" The sheep-herder's eyes brightened. A glow came into his brown face. "You do well to go armed where that wolf ranges!" said he. "You know him--you saw him yesterday. Is he still there?" "Why, I think he's camped somewhere along the river," she told him, unable to read what lay behind the excitement in the man's manner. He folded the paper and returned it to his pocket, his breath quick upon his lips. Suddenly he laid hold of her bridle with one hand, and with the other snatched the revolver from her low-swinging holster. "Don't be alarmed," said he; "but I want to know. Tell me true--lean over and whisper in my ear. Is he your friend?" "No, no! Far from it!" she whispered, complying with his strange order out of fear that his insanity, flaming as it was under the spur of some half-broken memory, might lead him to take her life. He gave her back the revolver and released the horse. "Go," said he. "But don't warn him, as you value your own life! My mission here is to kill that man!" Perhaps it was a surge of unworthiness which swept her, lifting her heart like hope. The best of us is unworthy at times; the best of us is base. Selfishness is the festering root of more evil than gold. In that flash it seemed to her that Providence had raised up an arm to save her. She leaned over, her face bright with eagerness. "Has he wronged you, too?" she asked. He lifted his hand to his forehead slowly, as if in a gesture of pain. The blood had drained from his face; his cheek-bones were marked white through his wind-hardened skin. "It's not a subject to be discussed with a woman, sir," said he absently. "There was a wife--somewhere there was a wife! This man came between us. I was not then what I am today--a shepherd on the hills.... But I must keep you here; you will betray me and warn him if I let you go!" he cried, rousing suddenly, catching her bridle again. "No, I'll not warn him," Agnes assured him. "If I thought you would"--he hesitated, searching her face with his fevered eyes, in which red veins showed as in the eyes of an angry dog--"I'd have to sacrifice you!"