They watched the clerks in the land-office arrive and enter through the side door. A shelf had been arranged in one of the front windows of the office, past which the entrants could file without going into the building. At nine o'clock this window would be opened. It was before it that Peterson and Jerry were standing. William Bentley looked at his watch. "Seven minutes more," he announced. "He'll never come," said Agnes, shaking her head sadly. "His chance is slipping away." "I've hoped right up to this minute that he would come," said William, "but I drop out now. It would have been such easy money for him, too." "Yes; Boyle's got that fellow tied up to relinquish to him the minute the entry is made," Horace added. "I know the lawyer who drew up the papers. It's illegal all through, but they say Boyle's got such a pull through his father that anything he wants will go." Until that hour Agnes had kept her faith in Dr. Slavens and her hope that he would appear in time to save his valuable claim. Now hope was gone, and faith, perhaps, had suffered a tarnishment of luster. For that is the way of human judgment. When one whom we have expected to rise up out of the smoke of obscurity or the fog of calumniation fails in what we feel to be his obligation to the world and ourselves--especially ourselves--faith falters in its place, and gives way to reproach, bitter words, hot arraignments. There is no scorn like the scorn of one who has been a friend. And still Agnes kept her faith that Dr. Slavens was blameless for his unexplained disappearance and prolonged absence deep-anchored in her heart. But there was a surface irritation at that moment, a disposition to censure and scold. For nothing short of death should keep a man away from the main chance of his career, thought she, and she could not believe that he was dead. It was altogether disappointing, depressing. He should have come; he should have moved the encumbering obstacles out of his way, no matter what their bulk. Not so much for his own sake maybe, when all was refined to its base of thought, as for the redemption of her faith and trust. "I don't care to stay and see them file," said she, turning away. "I'll get enough of it, I suppose, when my turn comes, waiting in line that way in the sun." "There's a special stage out for Comanche at eleven," said William, his watch in his hand. "If I can get a seat I'll return on it. It's time I was back in the shop." "For," he might have added if he had expressed his thoughts, "no matter what I think of you, Agnes, I see that it would be useless for me to hang around and hope. Dr. Slavens has stepped into the door of your heart, and there is no room for anybody else to pass." But he left it unsaid, standing with his head bent as if in meditation, his watch in his hand. "Two minutes more," he announced.