compartment made of him a more striking contrast to Father Roland than
he would have been under other conditions. His eyes were a clear and
steady gray as they met Father Roland's. They were eyes that one could
not easily forget. Except for his eyes he was like a man who had been
sick, and was still sick. The Missioner had made his own guess. And now,
with his hand on the other's knee, he said:

"And you say--that you are afraid--for this friend of yours?"

David Raine nodded his head. Lines deepened a little about his mouth.

"Yes, I am afraid." For a moment he turned to the night. A fiercer
volley of the little snow demons beat against the window, as though his
pale face just beyond their reach stirred them to greater fury. "I have
a most disturbing inclination to worry about him," he added, and
shrugged his shoulders slightly.

He faced Father Roland again.

"Did you ever hear of a man losing himself?" he asked. "I don't mean in
the woods, or in a desert, or by going mad. I mean in the other
way--heart, body, soul; losing one's grip, you might call it, until
there was no earth to stand on. Did you?"

"Yes--many years ago--I knew of a man who lost himself in that way,"
replied the Missioner, straightening in his seat. "But he found himself
again. And this friend of yours? I am interested. This is the first
time in three years that I have been down to the edge of civilization,
and what you have to tell will be different--vastly different from what
I know. If you are betraying nothing would you mind telling me his