For the second time that night, too, a picture rose before him, a
picture of great plains, towering mountains, and open spaces that spoke
the freedom and health of outdoor living. He had known that life once
before, when he and Jim Westcott had prospected and hit the trail
together, and its appeal to him now after three years of shallow
sightseeing in the city was deeper than ever.

"Good old Jim," he murmured, "struck pay-dirt at last only to lose it
and he needs me. By George, I think I'll go."

And why should he not? Only twenty-nine, he could still afford to
spend a few years in search of living. His fortune left him at the
death of his father was safely invested, and he had no close friends in
the city and no relatives, except a cousin, John Cavendish, for whom he
held no love, and little regard.

He had almost determined upon going to Bear Creek to meet Westcott and
was calling for his check when his attention was arrested by a noisy
party of four that boisterously took seats at a near-by table.
Cavendish recognised the two women as members of the chorus of the
prevailing Revue, one of them Celeste La Rue, an aggressive blonde with
thin lips and a metallic voice, whose name was synonymous with midnight
escapades and flowing wine. His contemptuous smile at the sight of
them deepened into a disgusted sneer when he saw that one of the men
was John Cavendish, his cousin.

The two men's eyes met, and the younger, a slight, mild-eyed youth with
a listless chin, excused himself and presented himself at the elder's