“He has been away for two weeks, or nearly two weeks. He left town the next morning after he walked home with you that Monday evening. He didn’t tell me where he was going. Did he tell you?” “He said he might go to the camps down in the San Juan next. But he didn’t say anything about going so soon. Haven’t you heard from him since that time?” “No; he hasn’t written me,” Bromley hastened to say, telling a half-truth which was little short of a lie direct. “But you are not anxious about him, are you?” “Anxious? Why should I be?” “But I think you are,” she said, looking him fairly in the eyes. As upon certain other occasions, he tried hard to plumb the depths of the dark eyes that were lifted to his, striving to read the answer to a question that had been tormenting him ever since his first meeting with her. How much did she care for Philip? Was she as much in love with him as he was with her? If she were, this was neither the time nor the place for the repeating of Drew’s story. But if she were not ... he made up his mind suddenly and took the plunge. “Jean, you know you can trust me to the limit, don’t you? Tell me honestly what there is between you and Philip.” “What there is between us?” The steady gaze of the dark eyes did not waver. “We are friends, of course; good friends, I hope.” “Nothing more?” “What more could there be?” “Then I may talk to you just as I might to any other friend of his?” “I don’t know why you shouldn’t.” Tone and manner both gave him the assurance that he might go on; that there was nothing more vital to be wounded than the friendship she had admitted. “Something has happened to Philip. I lied to you a minute ago--said I hadn’t heard from Phil. I haven’t, not directly; but Mr. Drew is down from Leadville, and he tells me that Philip is up in the big camp, ripping things wide open. I couldn’t believe it--can hardly believe it yet.” The deep-welled eyes were downcast now, and Bromley held his breath. If there were a little quiver of the sensitive lips when she spoke, the play-boy missed it--missed everything but the steady tone of her reply. “I have been afraid of something like that, haven’t you? Of course, you know what has happened?” “I don’t--I can’t imagine!” “It is perfectly plain. He has found his father.” “You think that is it?” “I am sure of it.” “But, even so--” he began. “Don’t you see? He hasn’t--he didn’t find things as he hoped to find them. Don’t you know him well enough to know what that would do to him?” It was said coolly enough, almost coldly; and Bromley marvelled. He had never imagined she could be so dispassionate. Before he could pull himself around to some half-way adequate matching of her mood, she went on: “Philip has always walked in a very narrow and straight path for himself, and he is very proud, in his own way. If something has happened to break his pride.... I know that is what _has_ happened; I am sure of it.”