"Not for him, Petrie—for her. It was too late for her to find out—well, what he was." The rebellion against the dead man seemed to choke him. Then he added, "I did it for her sake, Petrie." A restlessness took possession of Jim. All the old memories and sorrows began to lay their withering hands upon him. He crossed to the hitching-post and leaned against it as he watched with unseeing eyes the purple-and-red rays tipping the Uinta peaks. Petrie read the document again, and as he did so he wondered how much of this Lady Elizabeth had known—how much Diana suspected. He could see now why she had decided to come with him to America. He thought of her as he had seen her a few days ago at Fort Duchesne, of her eyes as she had asked him not to fail in his search, and of her disappointment when her cousin, Sir John Applegate, who accompanied her, had protested against her riding out with Petrie on a venture which might take days, to end only in disappointment. He went to Jim’s side. "Lady Kerhill," he said, "will be more grateful than you know, for I am here as her ambassador to beg you to come back home." Into the face of Jim came a wistful longing, so tender and yet so tragic that Petrie turned away from this glimpse into a hurt soul. He only dimly saw the man as he heard Jim’s whispered words: "Home, eh? Go back home! By Jove! what that would mean!" Then, as though a panorama were passing before him of his life on the ranch, he went on: "And I’ve been away all those awful years in this God-forsaken place." There was a break in the low voice and the echo of a sob as Jim turned his back on Petrie. Again the unlovely surroundings, with their evidences of pinched means, their stamp of neglect through want, impressed the solicitor. Very quietly he said, "It does look a bit desolate, Mr. Carston." Jim, now master of himself, turned, and as he looked at the dusty plains, the sun-baked cabin, the parched, feverish land about him, cried: "Desolate! It doesn’t look much like Maudsley Towers, with its parks and turrets, and oaks that go back to William the Conqueror, does it?" Before his eyes there came a picture of the home of his youth, of the place of his manhood’s joy. The word seemed to burn and tear at him with its possibilities. "Home, eh? I love old England as only an exile can—" He forgot the West, with its disappointments, its scars, and its days of pain, when memories of the past would not be stilled. He came over to Petrie, and in a burst of almost boyish confidence poured out his inmost feelings. "I love the English ways of doing things"—laughingly he looked at Petrie, and added—"even when they’re wrong. The little ceremonies—the respectful servants—the hundred little customs that pad your comfort and nurse your self-respect. Home, eh?" The word was like a minor chord that he wished to dwell upon, so lovingly did he repeat it. "Home, eh? And I love old London. I think I am even prepared to like the fogs."