lighted it. In the street he paused in his stride, gazing at the end of
his cigar. Lorry Adams looked mighty like Jim Waring, of Sonora. Hardy
had heard that Waring had been killed down in the southern country. Some
one had made a mistake.

Waring had risen. He stood with one hand touching the table, the tips of
his fingers drumming the rhythm of a song he hummed to himself. The
boy's back was toward him. Waring's gaze traveled from his son's head to
his boot-heel.

Lorry noticed that his mother seemed perturbed. He turned to Waring
with a questioning challenge in his gray eyes.

Mrs. Adams touched the boy's arm. "This is your father, Lorry."

Lorry glanced from one to the other.

Waring made no movement, offered no greeting, but stood politely
impassive.

Mrs. Adams spoke gently: "Lorry!"

"Why, hello, dad!" And the boy shook hands with his father.

Waring gestured toward a chair. Lorry sat down. His eyes were warm with
mild astonishment.

"Smoke?" said Waring, proffering tobacco and papers.

Lorry's gaze never left his father's face as he rolled a cigarette and