The candle in the niche behind her cast a dim light over the soft curves of Jean’s cheeks, rising delicately above the rough yellow oilskin coat. Loring beside her, looked down at her intently. Turning, she inadvertently brushed against his sleeve, and he quivered as though it had been a blow. The silence was growing oppressive with significance. Suddenly Jean broke it, saying: “Mr. Loring, I may not have another opportunity of speaking with you alone while we are in Kay. I must use this chance to tell you what pleasure it has given me to hear of your achievements here, of your courage in the riot and of—” Jean paused and seemed to choose her words carefully, “of your victory.” “Oh,” answered Stephen, with an attempt at ease, while all the time his heart was beating like a trip-hammer, “I suppose Baird has been talking about me; but you must not take him too literally. There is no libel law against flattery, and so men speak their minds about their friends as freely as they would like to do about their enemies. Miss Cameron,” he said suddenly, “I have never thanked you for the note which you sent me when I left Quentin. But you must know how grateful I felt. I did not deserve your trust; but I cannot tell you how it helped me.” She shook her head slowly, and when she spoke her voice was very soft. “I am glad if it helped you, but you would have won your fight without it, I think.” Her tone held a shadow of question. “The whole struggle would not have seemed worth while without that, and without the truest friend in the world to help. Miss Cameron, Baird Radlett came to me when I had fallen as low as a man could fall. He and your note saved me.” “No,” answered Jean, “you saved yourself. I think you were saved from the time of that dreadful night at Quentin, only you did not know it.” The roar of an ore car rushing by drowned her voice. A moment later Stephen spoke in a hard, dry tone. “I am not sure,” he said, “that I know exactly what salvation means. If it means that I am not likely to make a beast of myself any more, or murder any more men, I am glad to believe it is so; but after all what does it matter to me? I have lost my chance, thrown it away, and life cannot hold anything particularly cheerful for me after that.” “No, no!” Jean exclaimed with a swift inexplicable pang at her heart. “You must not say that. There are chances ahead in life for every one.” “Yes, chances; but not _the_ chance.” “Am I _the_ chance?” Jean asked, in a voice so low that it could scarcely be heard above the echoes. Loring bowed his head, with such dejection in his bearing as struck to the heart of the girl beside him. Jean had been thinking, thinking hard. The quick throbbing in her temples attested to the intensity of her mood. She knew in that instant that she cared for the man at her side; but how much? Enough to run the risk?