In something more than twenty minutes Annie was down and waiting impatiently for her father. Her whole mind was bent on getting to town. She hardly saw Beveridge. As for him, chagrined as he was, he had to admit that she looked very pretty in her trim blue gown. He had never before seen her dressed for the city. He was inclined to feel awed as well as bewildered. Then, finally, appeared the Captain in his Sunday clothes. And the three set out for the train and Dick. All the way Annie was preoccupied. Hardly a word could Beveridge get. From the train they hurried over to the stone building with the barred windows. Here the special agent held a short, whispered conversation which ended in the unbarring of doors and the word to follow down a corridor. And finally the last door was opened and Dick stood before them, dishevelled, unshaven, but indisputably Dick. Beveridge found himself slipping into the background when Annie and the prisoner were clasping hands without a word; but he watched them. He saw the question in Dick's eyes,--the something deep and burning, the something that was _not_ a question, in Annie's. He saw that she did not think of withdrawing her hand; he knew that in one short moment more her arms would be thrown around Dick's neck. He turned away, and, leaving them there, walked out into the street. The lights were out at “The Teamster's Friend.” It was ten o'clock at night, and from Stenzenberger's lumber office on one corner through to the corner at the farther end of the block the street was deserted. But Beveridge, who slowly turned the corner by the lumber yard,--Beveridge, who had passed the most turbulent day of his life trying to realize that he had lost Annie,--knew where to look. Lonely, miserable, plunged into dejection now that the strain was over, he turned into the driveway that led to the sheds in the rear of the saloon, and, pausing, looked up. Yes, there was a light in the upper rear window. He whistled. The curtain went up a little way--some one was looking down. The curtain went down again; the light slowly disappeared, leaving grotesque shadows on the curtain as it was carried from the room. Steps sounded in the hall; the bolt slipped back, and Madge stood in the doorway. “Hello,” said Beveridge. “Here I am.” “Oh,” cried Madge, with what sounded like a gasp of relief. She drew him quickly in, closed and locked the door, and stood looking at him. “I had to go out of town, Madge. I didn't get in till late last night. I have some news for you.” “Come in,” she said. And they went back into the dining room, where she had set down the lamp. They took chairs on opposite sides of the table. Madge rested her elbows on the red cloth, propped her chin on her two hands, and waited. Beveridge, while he looked at her, was rapidly getting back his self-possession. “Well, Madge, there's a good deal to tell you. McGlory--”