"You were going without saying good-bye," she said. "Won't you let me thank
you--a last time?"

Her voice brought him to himself again. A moment he bent over her hand. A
moment he felt its warm, firm pressure in his own. The smile that flashed
to his lips was hidden from her as he bowed his blond-gray head.

"Pardon me for the omission," he apologized. "Good-bye--and may good luck
go with you!"

Their eyes met once more. With another bow he had turned, and was
continuing his way. At the door Joanne Gray looked back. He was whistling
again. His careless, easy stride was filled with a freedom that seemed to
come to her in the breath of the mountains. And then she, too, smiled
strangely as she reëntered the tent.




CHAPTER III


If John Aldous had betrayed no visible sign of inward vanquishment he at
least was feeling its effect. For years his writings had made him the
target for a world of women, and many men. The men he had regarded with
indifferent toleration. The women were his life--the "frail and ineffective
creatures" who gave spice to his great adventure, and made his days
anything but monotonous. He was not unchivalrous. Deep down in his
heart--and this was his own secret--he did not even despise women. But he
had seen their weaknesses and their frailties as perhaps no other man had