It was on the tip of Bartrow's tongue to retort that he would very much like to take Miss Van Vetter for better or worse, but he had not the courage of his convictions. So he kept well in the middle of the road, and made the smoke-blackened tunnel his excuse for the inconsistency. "It isn't 'months,' Connie; or at least it's only two of them. You know I'd be glad enough to chase myself into Denver every other day if I could. But it is coming down to brass tacks with us in the Little Myriad, and I've just got to keep my eye on the gun." Whereupon pertness, or the Constance Elliott transmutation of it, vanished, and she made him sit down. "Tell me all about the Little Myriad, Dick. Is it going to keep its promise?" The Little Myriad's owner sought and found a handkerchief, using it mopwise. Curious questions touching the prospects of his venture on Topeka Mountain were beginning to have a perspiratory effect upon him. "I wish I could know for sure, Connie. Sometimes I think it will; and some other times I should think it means to go back on me,--if I dared to." "Isn't the lead still well-defined?" Constance dropped into the mining technicalities with the easy familiarity of one born in the metalliferous West. "It is now; but two months ago, or thereabouts, it pinched out entirely. That is why I hibernated." "Was the last mill-run encouraging?" "N-no, I can't say that it was. The ore--what little there is of it--seems to grade rather lower as we go in. But it's a true fissure, and it must begin to go the other way when we get deep enough." For a half-score of fan-sweeps Connie was silent. Then: "Is the purse growing light, Dickie? Because if it is, poppa's is still comfortably fat." Bartrow laughed in a way to indicate that the strain was lessened for the moment. "I believe you and your father would give away the last dollar you have in the world. But it hasn't come to a fresh loan with me yet." "When it does, you know where to float it." "When it does, I sha'n't rob my best friends. If I have to borrow more money for development, I'm afraid the loan will be classed as 'extra hazardous.' But you said there were several things. What else have I done?" "The next is something you haven't done. You haven't written a line to Mr. Lansdale in all these weeks,--not even to thank him for taking your foolish telegram about the Margaret Gannon crisis seriously. And he tells me he has written you twice." "I'm a miserable sinner, and letter writing isn't in me. Is Lansdale here? I'll go and square myself in the most abject formula you can suggest." "He isn't here. He is out at Bennett on a ranch." "On a ranch in midwinter? Who on top of earth told him to do that?" "One of the doctors. I wanted to dissuade him, but I hadn't the heart to try. He is so anxious to live."