She had a secret. Sometimes it filled her with a wild and tremulous delight. Again she stood before it with awe and even terror. More than once in the night she had found herself weeping with poignant self-pity. There were hours when her whole soul cried out for Rowan, and others when she hated him with all the passionate intensity of her untutored heart. Life, which had been so familiar and easy, took on strange and inexplicable phases. She had become a mystery to herself. A chill wind from the snow peaks swept the mesa. Ruth gathered up her belongings and walked back to the house. She slipped in quietly by the back door, intent on reaching her room unnoticed. As she passed the door of the big lounging room the voice of Tim Flanders boomed out: “I tell you that if McCoy led that raid there was no intention of killing Tait and Gilroy. I’ve known Mac twenty-five years. He’s white clear through.” Ruth wheeled into the room instantly. She went straight to Flanders. “Who says Rowan led that raid?” she demanded, white to the lips. There was a long moment of silence. Then: “He’ll clear himself,” Flanders replied lamely. The young wife had not known her husband was even suspected. She caught the back of a chair with a grip so tight that the knuckles lost their colour. “Tell me—tell me what you mean.” He tried to break it gently, but blundered out that the sheriff had to arrest somebody and had chosen McCoy among others. “Where is he?” And when she knew: “Take me to him!” she ordered. Flanders wasted no words in remonstrance. He agreed at once, and had his car waiting at the door before Ruth had packed her suitcase. Through the darkness he drove down the steep mountain road to Wagon Wheel. By the time they reached town it was too late to get permission of the sheriff to see her husband that night, but Tim made arrangements by which she was to be admitted to his cell as soon as breakfast was over next morning. Ruth slept brokenly, waking from bad dreams to a realization of the dreary truth. One of the dreams was that they were taking Rowan out to hang him and he refused to say good-bye to her. When she came to breakfast at the hotel it was with no appetite. Tim insisted on her eating, but the toast she munched at stuck in her throat. “You drink your coffee, anyhow, honey. You’ll feel better,” he urged. * * * * * The limbs of the girl trembled as she followed the jailer. The pulse in her throat was beating fast. At sight of her standing in the shadow of his cell, Rowan drew a deep, ragged breath. The tired eyes in the oval of her pale face held the weariness of woe. Always the clear-cut, delicate face of his sweetheart had touched him nearly, but now it seemed to have the poignant, short-lived charm of a flower. The youth in her was quenched. He had ruined her life.