"That's bad," said Bartrow; but Connie's father looked greatly relieved, and, filling his pipe, began to burn incense to the kindly god of chance. After a time, Bartrow asked, "When?" Connie's gaze was on the sunset, but her thoughts were miles away in a humble cottage in West Denver where she had thought Margaret would be safely hidden from the spoiler. "I think we'd better go now--to-night. You can flag the train at the mine switch, can't you?" "Yes." "And you can get ready, can't you, Myra?" "Certainly; it won't take me long to pack. If you'll excuse me I'll go and do it now, and get it off my mind." When Myra had gone in, Bartrow took the message and read it again. "This is no woman's job," he objected. "Let me go down with you and straighten it out." "No, you mustn't, Dick; you have lost a clear week as it is." She rose and went to the end of the porch, whither he presently followed her. "You'll need a man," he insisted. "I shall have poppa." "Yes, but he's no good--only to pay the bills." "No matter; I shall get along all right." "That's straight, is it?" "Yes, I mean it." "All right; you're the doctor. But you must wire me if you need me." An hour later the visitors had said good-by to Bartrow and the Little Myriad, and were on their way down the canyon in the miniature sleeping-car. Myra pleaded weariness and had her berth made down early. Nevertheless, she lay awake far into the night gazing out at the rotating heavens and the silent procession of peaks and precipices. For a background the shifting scene held two irrelevant pictures; one, freshly etched, reproducing the little drama of the cloud-burst; the other a memory of something she had read,--a story in which a man, two women, an overturned boat, and a storm-lashed lake figured as the persons and properties. "He knew which he loved--which to save first--when the crux came," she said softly to her pillow, "and the other girl was fortunate not to have drowned." And at that moment a certain well-to-do gentleman of middle age in a far-away city on the Atlantic seaboard was nearer the goal of his wishes than he had ever been before. In the mean time, Bartrow had an inspiration which was importunate enough to send him afoot to Alta Vista in the wake of the swinging passenger train. It found voice in a mandatory telegram to Lansdale, telling him to call at once upon Miss Constance Elliott, to present the message as his credential, and to place himself at her service in any required capacity, from man-at-arms to attorney-at-law. CHAPTER XIII