That same strange Something, stronger than her fear of the silence or even of Mr. Crusoe, was making her breath come in gasps as she sank into her chair and tried to collect her scattered senses. Truly Life was being too generous to her that day! So Malcolm and Aunt Nan loved each other! That was clearly unmistakable. She was sorry she had intruded, though she knew they had not heard her. In that last moment before she had found strength to run away she felt as though she had come unbidden into a sacred place. Her cheeks burned at the thought. How surprised the girls would be when she told them! No, she would not tell! It was Aunt Nan's secret--hers and Malcolm's! Fifteen minutes later, still unperceived and to all appearances quite forgotten, she sat in her chair and watched Aunt Nan and Malcolm go down the lane beneath the cottonwoods, and on toward the foot-hills. They had forgotten her very existence. She was all alone--alone with Mr. Crusoe and the silence. At that very instant Mr. Crusoe again passed before the porch--again paused to study the house. This time he held a key in his hand--a large key on a string which he twisted and untwisted as it swung from his big, brown finger. Vivian knew that key. It belonged to the root-cellar just beyond the kitchen, and it hung in Mr. Hunter's office above his desk. She had seen Hannah take it a dozen times, and once Mr. Hunter had given it to Virginia, asking her to get some papers from a desk he kept down there. Why should Mr. Crusoe want to go to the root-cellar? Something told Vivian that the time for her to act had come; that only she could save the Hunter fortunes from oncoming disaster. As Mr. Crusoe rounded the farther corner of the porch, and started in the direction of the root-cellar, Vivian ran through the house and into Hannah's spotless kitchen. A new sense of responsibility gave birth to a bran-new sense of courage. Vivian, watching from the kitchen window, saw Mr. Crusoe go into the cellar. That was enough. Running to Virginia's room, she grasped the little rifle which stood in the corner. It was the only gun in the house which Vivian had ever used, and her one experience with it had not given her a far-reaching knowledge of fire-arms. Still, it was a gun, and guns concealed cowardice, and lent power and dignity to one's bearing. Vivian knew that it was loaded. Virginia always kept it ready in case a gopher poked his inquisitive little nose above the ground. She knew, too, that a quick push of her thumb would drive back the safety and leave the gun ready to shoot.