by her husband's.

A queer picture, he reflected, the three of them shut away on the
great ranch, and every day some new tension, some new strain.

Then, one night at dinner, they quarreled, and Beverly left the
table. She was going to pack her things and go back to New York.
She had felt, probably, that something was bound to snap. And while
she was upstairs Clark had shot and killed Howard Lucas, and himself
disappeared.

He had run, testimony at the inquest revealed, to the corral, and
saddled a horse. Although it was only October, it was snowing hard,
but in spite of that he had turned his horse toward the mountains.
By midnight a posse from Norada had started out, and another up the
Dry River Canyon, but the storm turned into a blizzard in the
mountains, and they were obliged to turn back. A few inches more
snow, and they could not have got their horses out. A week or so
later, with a crust of ice over it, a few of them began again, with
no expectation, however, of finding Clark alive. They came across
his horse on the second day, but they did not find him, and there
were some among them who felt that, after all, old Elihu Clark's
boy had chosen the better way.

Bassett closed his notebook and lighted a cigar.

There was a big story to be had for the seeking, a whale of a story.
He could go to the office, give them a hint, draw expense money and
start for Norada the next night. He knew well enough that he would
have to begin there, and that it would not be easy. Witnesses of