“I hope you’re right,” she said. “I’d hate to think any man like that had ever come here to see us or been a friend of yours.” “So would I,” said June promptly. “So would any girl.” “Well, good night. You’re tired to death. I’ll put the gas out.” June saw the tall white figure move to the bureau and then darkness fell, and she heard its rustling withdrawal. She lay still for a time staring at the square of light that fell from her sister’s room through the open door. Presently this disappeared and she moved her eyes to the faint luminous line which showed the separation of the window curtains. She was still staring at it wide-eyed and motionless when it grew paler, whiter and then warmer with the new day. She had spoken the truth when she said she did not believe the ugly story. There are many women who have the faculty of quietly shutting a door on obvious facts and refusing them admittance into the prim sanctuary of their acceptance. How much more might a young girl, loving, inexperienced and tender, refuse to believe a blasting rumor that had touched a figure already shrined in her heart! But the shock she suffered was severe. That such a story should be coupled with his name was revolting to her. And far down in the inner places of her being, where nature has placed in women a chord that thrills to danger, a creeping sense of dread and fear stirred. But she smothered its warning vibration and, with her eyes fixed on the crack of light, repeated over and over: “Lies! lies! Miserable, cowardly lies!” CHAPTER III ONE OF EVE’S FAMILY It was a few weeks after the ball that the Colonel heard of the expected arrival in town of Rion Gracey and Barney Sullivan _en route_ to Virginia City. From the great camp across the mountain wall in the Nevada desert, an electric current had begun to thrill and extend its vibrations wherever men congregated. The autumn rumors that Virginia was not dead persisted. The mutterings of the silver volcano had grown louder and caught the ear of the hurrying throng. The reports of a strike in Crown Point rose and fell like an uneasy tide. The price of the stock that in the spring of seventy had sold for seventy-five cents had risen to two, and then to three, dollars. Men watched it disquieted, loath to be credulous where they had so often been the dupes of manager and manipulator, yet tempted by the oft-repeated prophecy that the great bonanzas of Virginia were yet to be discovered. Throughout California and Nevada the miners that three years before had left the dying camp as rats leave a sinking ship, began to bind up their packs and turn their faces that way. It was like the first concentrating movement of a stealthily gathering army. The call of money had gone thrilling along the lines of secret communication which connect man with man.