“But he’ll be back in a few days, won’t he?” he queried, looking at her with sudden, sharp inquiry. “If--if--I should be delayed, as I told you I might be, he’ll be here and he’ll look after you. You see more of him now than you do of me. He seems to be more your father than I.” “He’s here oftener,” she said apologetically, “you’re away so much.” “Maybe that’s it. I’m not kicking about it. He’s the Graceys’ right hand man now. He’s on top of the heap. He’ll always look out for you, and he’ll be able to do it.” He turned to throw some more papers on the burning pile, missing her look of surprise. “Always look out for me!” she repeated. “There’s no need for him to do that. You’ll be back soon.” “You needn’t take me so literally. But you ought to know by this time that the future’s a pretty uncertain thing. If anything should happen to me, it’s just as I say, he’d be here on the spot ready and willing to take care of you. You can’t look for much from me. If I died to-morrow I wouldn’t leave you a cent. The Barranca’s petered.” “But the stocks you’re going to San Francisco to sell? They must be worth a good deal. Everybody’s stocks seem to be worth something now. Mitty Sullivan’s cook says she’s thirty thousand ahead.” “Oh, yes, they’ll bring something.” He spoke absently, took up Thompson’s bill and thrust it on a spike with others of its kind. “There they are, all the tradesmen. Don’t let them bother you. You’d better run along now and let me finish up.” “Can I help you pack?” she suggested with timid politeness. He shook his head, his eye traveling down a new letter he had picked up from the desk. “Good night,” she said, moving toward the door. He dropped the letter and, following her, put his arm around her and kissed her. It was an unexpected caress. He and his daughter had grown very far apart in this last year. “Good-by,” he said gently, and turning from her went back to his papers. “Run along,” he said without looking up. “I’ll be busy here for some hours yet.” When she came down to breakfast the next morning he had already gone. The Chinaman told her he had left early, driving into Reno by private conveyance in order to catch the first morning train to the coast. That evening Jerry beat out the last spark of her resistance. He held her close in his arms, his cheek against hers, and revealed to her his plan of elopement. Trembling and sobbing she clung to him, under his kisses the words of denial dying on her lips. He paid no heed to her feeble pleadings, hushing her protests with caresses, whispering of their happiness, murmuring the lovers’ sentences that, since Eve, have been the undoing of impassioned women.