She slipped to the door and listened. Her movements were stealthy as that of some forest animal evading a hunter. She turned the knob softly, and with still swiftness was inside the stranger's room, and the door closed behind her. He certainly was more alert, for his eyes met hers instantly. His look was almost one of fear, and she was trembling visibly. "I had to come," she said, nervously, in a half whisper, "I heard the letters read, and I have to tell you something I've thought all night--all day--and I have to tell you. Do you understand? Try to understand. Nod your head if you do. Do you?" Her speech was rapid and impatient, while she listened each moment lest a step sound on the stairs again. But in all her eagerness to hear she never looked away from his face, and she uttered a low exclamation of gladness when the man's head bent slowly in assent. "Oh, I am so glad--so glad! You will get well; you must! Listen! I know you now, and why you looked at me so. You think you saw me up at Revelstoke--I think I remember your face there--and you don't trust me. You are looking for that man--the man that took her away from you. You think I could find a trail to him; but you are wrong. He is dead, and I know she is--I _know_! Your name was the last word she said--'Joe.' She wanted you to forgive her, and not cross _his_ path. You don't believe me, perhaps; but it is all true. I went to the camp with--with the boy she wrote of. She talked of you to me. I had word to give you if we ever met. But how was I to know that Jim Harris was the man--the same man? Do you hear--do you believe me?" Those burning eyes--eyes in which all of life in him seemed concentrated--looked out on her from the pale, strange face; looked on her until her own cheeks grew colorless, for there was something awful in the searching regard of the man who was but half alive.