“I have been thinking since I saw you last--yes, and I have been making inquiries. I have been trying to find out things--which you will not tell me.” She paused, with a little catch of her breath, and went on again. “Do you believe I came all the way up here just to hear Humphrey Crewe make a speech and to drive with him in a high sleigh and listen to him talk about his career? When serious men of the people like Mr. Redbrook and that nice Mr. Jenney at Leith and a lot of others who do not ordinarily care for politics are thinking and indignant, I have come to the conclusion there must be a cause for it. They say that the railroad governs them through disreputable politicians,--and I--I am beginning to believe it is true. I have had some of the politicians pointed out to me in the Legislature, and they look like it.” Austen did not smile. She was speaking quietly, but he saw that she was breathing deeply, and he knew that she possessed a courage which went far beyond that of most women, and an insight into life and affairs. “I am going to find out,” she said, “whether these things are true.” “And then?” he asked involuntarily. “If they are true, I am going to tell my father about them, and ask him to investigate. Nobody seems to have the courage to go to him.” Austen did not answer. He felt the implication; he knew that, without realizing his difficulties, and carried on by a feeling long pent up, she had measured him unjustly, and yet he felt no resentment, and no shock. Perhaps he might feel that later. Now he was filled only with a sympathy that was yet another common bond between them. Suppose she did find out? He knew that she would not falter until she came to the end of her investigation, to the revelation of Mr. Flint's code of business ethics. Should the revolt take place, she would be satisfied with nothing less than the truth, even as he, Austen Vane, had not been satisfied. And he thought of the life-long faith that would be broken thereby. They had made the circle of the hills, and the sparkling lights of the city lay under them like blue diamond points in the twilight of the valley. The crests behind them deepened in purple as the saffron faded in the west, and a gossamer cloud of Tyrian dye floated over Holdfast. In silence they turned for a last lingering look, and in silence went down the slope into the world again, and through the streets to the driveway of the Duncan house. It was only when they had stopped before the door that she trusted herself to speak. “I ought not to have said what I did,” she began, in a low voice; “I didn't realize--but I cannot understand you.” “You have said nothing which you need ever have cause to regret,” he replied. He was too great for excuses, too great for any sorrow save what she herself might feel, as great as the silent hills from which he came.