“This way, Pat! Be careful of the slide--I’m down underground--in a hole. If Monty’s coming, better wait for him. I’m afraid you’ll fall. That slide’s darn treacherous.” Gary’s eyes were blazing, his whole body was shaking as if he had a chill. But he was trying his best to hold himself steady, to be sensible and to play the game. The thought flashed into his mind of men lost on the desert, who rushed crazily toward demon-painted mirages, babbling rapturously at the false vision. If this were a trick of his tortured imagination--well, let it be so. He would meet realization when it came. But now---- He could hear Patricia panting and slipping in the loose rocks no more than a few yards away. He shouted to her, imploring her to be careful--to wait for Monty--to come to him--he did not know what it was he was saying. He caught himself babbling and stopped abruptly. After all, it was Monty who first peered down past the bowlder and into the opening, where Gary’s face showed white and staring-eyed, but with the unquenchable grin. Monty gasped the name of his Maker and turned as white as a living man may become. Then he turned; Gary saw him put up his arms. Saw two summer-shod feet with silk-clad ankles above the low shoes; saw the flicker of a skirt--and then Patricia was sitting on the bowlder where Faith had so often kept him company. Patricia cried out at sight of him and looked as if she were going to faint. “Count of Monte Cristo--in his dungeon in the Bastille--before he did the high dive and made his get-away,” Gary cackled flippantly. “Say, folks, how about a few eats?” Then his white, smiling face with the terrible, brilliant eyes, slid down and down. They heard a slithering kind of fall. Patricia screamed and screamed again. Monty himself gave a great, man sob before he pulled himself together. He put his arm around Patricia’s shoulder, patting her as he would soothe a child. “He’s just fainted,” he said, his voice breaking uncertainly. “It’s the shock of seeing us. Can yuh-all stay here while I beat it down to the shack and get some grub? Have yuh-all got the nerve?” Patricia held her palms tightly to her face and fought down her panic and the horror that chilled her heart. When she looked up at Monty she was Patricia-on-the-job again; efficient, thinking clearly just what must be done. “He’s evidently nearly starved,” she said, and if her voice was not calm, it was at least as steady as Monty’s. “Bring a can of milk and plenty of water and a cup. And bread and a couple of eggs and a spoon,” she said. “Some soft-boiled eggs, after awhile, should be all right for him. But the milk is what he should have first. Oh, if you look in my grip, you’ll find a bottle of malted milk. I brought it in case the food was too bad at country hotels. That’s just what I want. And hurry!” “Yuh-all needn’t be afraid I’ll loaf on the job,” Monty told her reproachfully; and gave her the bottle of water, and was gone before she could apologize.