The fire crackled and the clock ticked. Every sense was sharpened and quickened in Dale until it was painful. Objects in the room stood out clearly to his uncaring sight; the snap of the fire, the tick of the clock smote like separate reports upon his hearing; and while he lived he was to recall, when he smelled burning pine, this tense moment. Presently he rose unsteadily and reached out for his coat and hat like a blind man. "Well, Drew," he said, making an effort to speak evenly, "there doesn't seem to be anything more to say. I am going. Good-bye." "Dale--where are you going?" Drew was beside him. "I'm going to try and find--Joyce Lauzoon." "She--has--gone--to--her husband! He sent for her--and she went." Drew spoke with an effort; but before the look on John Dale's face, he staggered back. Hopeless rage, defeated desire blanched and fired in turn the strong features. Then without a word Dale strode from the room. CHAPTER XX John Dale went directly to his shack. What else was there for him to do until he could find another trail through the blank that surrounded him? When he had entered his home the night before, God knew he had been sorely distressed. He was going back to the woman he loved with her fetters still unloosened. Worn and spent, he had permitted himself the relaxation of spending a few days with her before he started out again on the quest of Jude. He had found the shack deserted, but every pitiful evidence of Joyce's thought for his comfort was apparent. He had lighted the fire and lamp; had searched for note or other explanation, and, finding none, he had eaten hastily and gone to Filmer's house. There desolation again greeted him. Finally he had concluded that Joyce had gone to Isa Tate. This was a poor solace, but it stayed him through the long night; an early visit to the Black Cat proved this last hope vain. Now, with the later knowledge searching into his soul, Dale noticed the careful arrangements Joyce had made, before she slipped back into the hell from which he had once rescued her. She had taken only her own poor belongings. The shabby gowns and trinkets that had been found among the ruins of the home Jude had laid low. One silent token of the flight brought the stinging tears to Dale's eyes. At the last, there must have been haste, for near the door of Joyce's bedroom lay the mate of the baby's sock that Isa Tate was hiding at that very moment. Poor, dead baby! He was pleading for the pretty mother who in his brief life had so tenderly pleaded for him. Isa had wept over the tiny shoe, and now John Dale picked the mate up reverently, and put it back where he knew Joyce always had kept it. Manlike he did not give himself blindly up to his misery. Life must go on somehow--and while he sought a way out of the blackness that enshrouded him, he must prepare himself. He replenished the fire, and then when high noon flooded the living room with a pale glow, he set forth a meagre but nourishing meal.