"I don't care. The mountains are filled with secret nooks you could pass by within a stone's throw and never see into, she may be in one of them. I suppose she is dead and it's all foolish, this hope, but I'll never believe it until I have examined every square rod within a radius of fifty miles from your camp. I'll take the long chance, the longest even." "Well, that's all right," said Robert Maitland. "Of course I intend to do that as soon as the spring opens, but what's the use of trying to do it now?" "It's use to me. I'll either go mad here in Denver, or I must go to seek for her there." "But you will never come back if you once get in those mountains alone." "I don't care whether I do or not. It's no use, old man, I am going and that's all there is about it." Robert Maitland knew men, he recognized finality when he heard it or when he saw it and it was quite evident that he was in the presence of it then. It was of no use for him or anyone to say more. "Very well," he said, "I honor you for your feeling even if I don't think much of your common sense." "Damn common sense," cried Armstrong triumphantly, "it's love that moves me now." At that moment there was a tap on the door. A clerk from an outer office bidden to enter announced that old Kirkby was in the ante-room. "Bring him in," directed Maitland, eager to welcome him. He fancied that the new comer would undoubtedly assist him in dissuading Armstrong from his foolhardy, useless enterprise. "Mornin', old man," drawled Kirkby. "Howdy, Armstrong. My respects to you, sir," he said, sinking his voice a little as he bowed respectfully toward Mr. Stephen Maitland, a very sympathetic look in the old frontiersman's eyes at the sight of the bereaved father. "Kirkby, you've come in the very nick of time," at once began Robert Maitland. "Allus glad to be Johnny-on-the-spot," smiled the older man. "Armstrong here," continued the other intent upon his purpose, "says he can't wait until the spring and the snows melt, he is going into the mountains now to look for Enid." Kirkby did not love Armstrong, he did not care for him a little bit, but there was something in the bold hardihood of the man, something in the way which he met the reckless challenge of the mountains that the old man and all the others felt that moved the inmost soul of the hardy frontiersman. He threw an approving glance at him. "I tell him that it is absurd, impossible; that he risks his life for nothing, and I want you to tell him the same thing. You know more about the mountains than either of us." "Mr. Kirkby," quavered Stephen Maitland, "allow me. I don't want to influence you against your better judgment, but if you could sit here as I have done and think that maybe she is there and perhaps alive still, and in need, you would not say a word to deter him."