cabin and later sending its pictures broadcast, and divers gentlemen
of the press, eager to pit their wits against ten years of time and
the ability of a once conspicuous man to hide from the law, packing
their suitcases for Norada.

No, he couldn't stop now. He would go on, like the others, and with
this advantage, that he was morally certain he could lay his hands
on Clark at any time. But he would have to prove his case, connect
it. Who, for instance, was the other man in the cabin? He must
have known who the boy was who lay in that rough bunk, delirious.
Must have suspected anyhow. That made him, like the Donaldsons,
accessory after the fact, and criminally liable. Small chance of
him coming out with any confession. Yet he was the connecting link.
Must be.

On his third reading the reporter began to visualize the human
elements of the fight to save the boy; he saw moving before him the
whole pitiful struggle; the indomitable ranch manager, his
heart-breaking struggle with the blizzard, the shooting of his horse,
the careful disarming of suspicion, and later the intrepid woman,
daring that night ride through snow that had sent the posse back
to its firesides to the boy, locked in the cabin and raving.

His mind was busy as he packed his suitcase. Already he had
forgotten his compunctions of the early morning; he moved about
methodically, calculating roughly what expense money he would need,
and the line of attack, if any, required at the office. Between
Norada and that old brick house at Haverly lay his story. Ten
years of it. He was closing his bag when he remembered the little
girl in the blue dress, at the theater. He straightened and scowled.