But he would have to go back. He couldn't be caught like a rat in a trap. The Clarks didn't run away. They were fighters. Only the Clarks didn't kill. They fought, but they didn't murder. He picked up his hat and went to the door. “Well, you've been mighty kind, old man,” he said. “But I've got to go back. I ran last night like a scared kid, but I'm through with that sort of foolishness.” “I'd give a good bit,” Bassett said, watching him, “to know what made you run last night. You were safe where you were.” “I don't know what you are talking about,” Dick said drearily. “I didn't run from them. I ran to get away from something.” He turned away irritably. “You wouldn't understand. Say I was drunk. I was, for that matter. I'm not over it yet.” Bassett watched him. “I see,” he said quietly. “It was last night, was it, that this thing happened?” “You know it, don't you?” “And, after it happened, do you remember what followed?” “I've been riding all night. I didn't care what happened. I knew I'd run into a whale of a blizzard, but I--” He stopped and stared outside, to where the horses grazed in the upland meadow, knee deep in mountain flowers. Bassett, watching him, saw the incredulity in his eyes, and spoke very gently. “My dear fellow,” he said, “you are right. Try to understand what I am saying, and take it easy. You rode into a blizzard, right enough. But that was not last night. It was ten years ago.” XXIX Had Bassett had some wider knowledge of Dick's condition he might have succeeded better during that bad hour that followed. Certainly, if he had hoped that the mere statement of fact and its proof would bring results, he failed. And the need for haste, the fear of the pursuit behind them, made him nervous and incoherent. He had first to accept the incredible, himself--that Dick Livingstone no longer existed, that he had died and was buried deep in some chamber of an unconscious mind. He made every effort to revive him, to restore him into the field of consciousness, but without result. And his struggle was increased in difficulty by the fact that he knew so little of Dick's life. David's name meant nothing, apparently, and it was the only name he knew. He described the Livingstone house; he described Elizabeth as he had seen her that night at the theater. Even Minnie. But Dick only shook his head. And until he had aroused some instinct, some desire to live, he could not combat Dick's intention to return and surrender. “I understand what you are saying,” Dick would say. “I'm trying to get it. But it doesn't mean anything to me.” He even tried the war. “War? What war?” Dick asked. And when he heard about it he groaned. “A war!” he said. “And I've missed it!” But soon after that he got up, and moved to the door. “I'm going back,” he said. “Why?” “They're after me, aren't they?” “You're forgetting again. Why should they be after you now, after ten years?” “I see. I can't get it, you know. I keep listening for them.”