Steele Weir would never forget that moment of panic, his father's spring to the wall and following laugh--the only laugh he had heard from those lips; and though but twelve years old at the time he could not misread the episode. On another occasion he found his father kneeling at the grave under the giant pine beyond the cabin--the grave of the gentle mother of whom Steele had but dim recollections--and his father's hands were clasped, his head bowed. With an infinite yearning he had longed to creep forward and comfort him by his presence, by a clasp of the hand, but the recollection of his father's habitual chill reserve daunted him and he stole away. On his own life the mystery had left its gloomy impress. A solitary and joyless boyhood, overhung by he knew not what danger, haunted by a parent's lurking fear and anguish, had made him a silent, cold, ever watchful man, never entirely free from the expectation that his father's sealed past at some instant would open and confront him with the terrible facts. For that reason he felt that the success he had gained as an engineer, a success won by relentless toil and solid ability, rested on a quicksand. For that cause he had welcomed engineering projects full of danger and by his indifference to that danger gained his name "Cold Steel." Now on this day with his father he once again put the question he always asked on his visits, and with no more hope of a consenting reply than before. "I must be going to-morrow. Won't you come along with me this time, father? I want you to live with me, so that I can look after you and be with you. We can fix up a good cabin at the engineering camp. You're not so strong as you were; you could fall sick here and die and never a person know it. I doubt if you spend, making yourself comfortable, one dollar in ten of the money I send you. You would be interested in the building of this big irrigation project I'm to direct." His father appeared to shudder. "No, no," he muttered. "I've lived here and I'll die here." "That's what I'm afraid of," Steele responded. "Afraid you may become sick and die for lack of care." "No. I'll remain, my son." That was conclusive. It was the answer of not only thirty years of living at the spot, but of his secret dread. Steele saw once more the stark fear in his eyes, the fear of contact with men, of venturing out into the world, of precipitating fate. For a time his father plucked his white unkempt beard with unsteady hand. "Where's the place you're going this time?" he presently inquired, without real interest. "New Mexico." On the elder's face appeared suddenly a gray shadow as if the blood were ebbing from his heart. "Where in New Mexico?" he whispered. "The town of San Mateo." His father struggled to his feet. With one hand he clutched the doorframe for support. The skin of his cheeks had gone a sickly white.