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A name was mentionedhis own！ His angry hand was on the latch。
One moment more and he would have burst the door； but in that
instant another name was uttereda name that dropped his hand from
the latch and the blood from his cheeks。 He staggered backward；
passed his hand swiftly across his forehead； recovered himself with
a gesture of mingled rage and despair； and； sinking on his knees
beside the door； pressed his hot temples against the crack。
〃Do I know Lance Harriott？〃 said the voice。 〃Do I know the dd
ruffian？ Didn't I hunt him a year ago into the brush three miles
from the Crossing？ Didn't we lose sight of him the very day he
turned up yer at this ranch； and got smuggled over into Monterey？
Ain't it the same man as killed Arkansaw BobBob Ridleythe name
he went by in Sonora？ And who was Bob Ridley； eh？ Who？ Why； you
dd old fool； it was Bob FairleyYOUR SON！〃
The old man's voice rose querulous and indistinct。
〃What are ye talkin' about？〃 interrupted the first speaker。 〃I
tell you I KNOW。 Look at these pictures。 I found 'em on his body。
Look at 'em。 Pictures of you and your girl。 Pr'aps you'll deny
them。 Pr'aps you'll tell me I lie when I tell you HE told me he
was your son； told me how he ran away from you； how you were livin'
somewhere in the mountains makin' gold； or suthin' else； outer
charcoal。 He told me who he was as a secret。 He never let on he
told it to any one else。 And when I found that the man who killed
him； Lance Harriott； had been hidin' here； had been sendin' spies
all around to find out all about your son； had been foolin' you and
tryin' to ruin your gal as he had killed your boy； I knew that HE
knew it； too。〃
〃LIAR！〃
The door fell in with a crash。 There was the sudden apparition of
a demoniac face； still half hidden by the long trailing black locks
of hair that curled like Medusa's around it。 A cry of terror
filled the room。 Three of the men dashed from the door and fled
precipitately。 The man who had spoken sprang toward his rifle in
the chimney corner。 But the movement was his last； a blinding
flash and shattering report interposed between him and his weapon。
The impulse carried him forward headlong into the fire； that hissed
and spluttered with his blood； and Lance Harriott with his smoking
pistol； strode past him to the door。 Already far down the trail
there were hurried voices； the crack and crackling of impending
branches growing fainter and fainter in the distance。 Lance turned
back to the solitary living figurethe old man。
Yet he might have been dead； too； he sat so rigid and motionless；
his fixed eyes staring vacantly at the body on the hearth。 Before
him on the table lay the cheap photographs； one evidently of
himself； taken in some remote epoch of complexion； one of a child
which Lance recognized as Flip。
〃Tell me；〃 said Lance hoarsely； laying his quivering hand on the
table； 〃was Bob Ridley your son？〃
〃My son；〃 echoed the old man in a strange； far…off voice； without
turning his eyes from the corpse〃My sonisisis there！〃
pointing to the dead man。 〃Hush！ Didn't he tell you so？ Didn't
you hear him say it？ Deaddeadshotshot！〃
〃Silence！ are you crazy； man？〃 repeated Lance； tremblingly； 〃that
is not Bob Ridley； but a dog； a coward； a liar gone to his
reckoning。 Hear me！ If your son WAS Bob Ridley； I swear to God I
never knew it； now ororTHEN。 Do you hear me？ Tell me！ Do you
believe me？ Speak！ You shall speak。〃
He laid his hand almost menacingly on the old man's shoulder。
Fairley slowly raised his head。 Lance fell back with a groan of
horror。 The weak lips were wreathed with a feeble imploring smile；
but the eyes wherein the fretful； peevish； suspicious spirit had
dwelt were blank and tenantless； the flickering intellect that had
lit them was blown out and vanished。
Lance walked toward the door and remained motionless for a moment；
gazing into the night。 When he turned back again toward the fire
his face was as colorless as the dead man's on the hearth； the fire
of passion was gone from his beaten eyes； his step was hesitating
and slow。 He went up to the table。
〃I say； old man；〃 he said； with a strange smile and an odd；
premature suggestion of the infinite weariness of death in his
voice； 〃you wouldn't mind giving me this； would you？〃 and he took
up the picture of Flip。 The old man nodded repeatedly。 〃Thank
you；〃 said Lance。 He went to the door； paused a moment； and
returned。 〃Good…by； old man；〃 he said； holding out his hand。
Fairley took it with a childish smile。 〃He's dead；〃 said the old
man softly； holding Lance's hand； but pointing to the hearth。
〃Yes；〃 said Lance； with the faintest of smiles on the palest of
faces。 〃You feel sorry for any one that's dead； don't you？〃
Fairley nodded again。 Lance looked at him with eyes as remote as
his own； shook his head； and turned away。 When he reached the door
he laid his revolver carefully； and； indeed； somewhat ostentatiously；
upon a chair。 But when he stepped from the threshold he stopped a
moment in the light of the open door to examine the lock of a small
derringer which he drew from his pocket。 He then shut the door
carefully； and with the same slow； hesitating step； felt his way
into the night。
He had but one idea in his mind； to find some lonely spot； some
spot where the footsteps of man would never penetrate； some spot
that would yield him rest； sleep； obliteration； forgetfulness； and；
above all； where HE would be forgotten。 He had seen such places；
surely there were many；where bones were picked up of dead men who
had faded from the earth and had left no other record。 If he could
only keep his senses now he might find such a spot； but he must be
careful； for her little feet went everywhere； and she must never
see him again alive or dead。 And in the midst of his thoughts； and
the darkness； and the storm； he heard a voice at his side； 〃Lance；
how long you have been！〃
。 。 。 。 。 。
Left to himself； the old man again fell into a vacant contemplation
of the dead body before him； until a stronger blast swept down like
an avalanche upon the cabin； burst through the ill…fastened door
and broken chimney； and； dashing the ashes and living embers over
the floor； filled the room with blinding smoke and flame。 Fairley
rose with a feeble cry； and then； as if acted upon by some dominant
memory； groped under the bed until he found his buckskin bag and
his precious crystal； and fled precipitately from the room。 Lifted
by this second shock from his apathy； he returned to the fixed idea
of his life；the discovery and creation of the diamond；and
forgot all else。 The feeble grasp that his shaken intellect kept
of the events of the night relaxed； the disguised Lance； the story
of his son； the murder； slipped into nothingness； there remained
only the one idea； his nightly watch by the diamond