When Sorenson had straightened his coat, giving Weir a malignant look during the process, he departed. His air of disdainful insolence had quite evaporated, but that he considered the action between them only begun was plain, though he spoke not a word. Weir, however, heard him give a quieting explanation to the waiter hovering outside, who had been drawn by the crash of dishes. "Thought a fight was going on," the aproned dispenser of food said to Steele when he and the girl emerged. "Just an accident. Nothing broken, I imagine," was the response. "You couldn't break those dishes with a hammer; they're made for rough work." "If there's any damage, this may cover it." And Steele tossed the fellow a dollar. Outside the restaurant he slipped his hand inside Mary Johnson's arm and led her along the street. With him he had brought the old strapped grip. "Where you taking me?" she asked, in a worried quaver. "Home, Mary." "Oh, I'm afraid to go home." "Are you afraid of your own father and mother? They're the ones to trust first of all." "But when father--mother is dead--sees the telescope, he'll want to know where I've been. He doesn't know I have it. I told him I might stay with a girl at San Mateo over night, and then sneaked it out." "The best thing is to tell him all about this occurrence." "Oh, I can't." "Then I shall. Leave that part to me." And though her heart was filled with fresh alarms and fears at the prospect, there seemed nothing else to do. She longed to flee, to hide in some dark hole, to cover her shame from her father and the world, but in the hands of this determined man she felt herself powerless. What he willed, she dumbly did. Terry Creek flowed out of the mountains four miles north of San Mateo, an insignificant stream entering the Burntwood halfway down to Bowenville. The Johnson ranch house was a mile up the canyon, where the rocky walls expanded into a grassy park of no great area. They reached the girl's home about half-past nine that night. For two hours Weir remained talking with the father, describing the affair at Bowenville, fending off his first bitter anger at the girl and gradually persuading him to see that Mary had been deceived, lured away on hollow promises and was guiltless of all except failing to take him into her confidence. At last peace was made. Mary wept for a time, and was patted on the head by her rough, bearded father, who exclaimed, "There, there, don't cry. You're safe back again; we'll just forget it." Outside of the house, however, where he had accompanied Weir to his car, he said with an oath: "But I'll not forget Ed Sorenson, if I go to hell for it. My little girl!" "She's half a child yet, that's the worse of his offense," Steele replied, savagely. "Mary said you choked him." "Some. Not enough." "I'll not forget him--or you, Mr. Weir." Steele mounted into his machine. He thoughtfully studied the rancher's bearded, weather-tanned face, illuminated by the moonlight.