Weston turned, and his face brightened.

"Oh, you mean the Bible. So that was one of your reasons, eh? But do you not know that the deepest-dyed villain often keeps the Bible close at hand? Such a man is generally fearful as well as superst.i.tious, and so considers the Bible as a charm to ward off evil. It has been said, you remember, that the devil himself can quote Scripture for his own purpose. I venture to say that his satanic majesty knows the Bible better than many professing Christians. It is necessary for him to do so in order to answer the arguments it sets forth. Perhaps that is the way with me. Anyway, we shall dismiss that evidence as faulty. What next?"

"Your daughter, sir. I cannot believe that any man is a downright villain who is fortunate enough to have such a daughter."

"I see, I see," and Weston stroked his heavy moustache. "Did you not say something of a similar nature last night? But are you aware that a man may have a n.o.ble daughter, and still be a villain? Facts of history bear out what I say, unless I am greatly mistaken."

"That may have been true in some cases, sir," Reynolds replied.

"However, I am not concerned about the past, but the present only. No matter what you may say to the contrary, you will not convince me. And besides, there is something else which hinges upon this reason."

"And what is that?"

"You are very fond of your daughter, are you not?"

"Certainly. She is all I have in the world, and she is dearer to me than life itself."

"Just so," and Reynolds smiled. "And for her sake, at least, you would not dare to burn any man alive."

"Wouldn't dare! Why not?"

"Simply because you would be hunted down as a murderer, and hung. Why, the Mounted Police would have had you in their clutches long before this."

"They would, eh? What do I care about law? Am I not a law unto myself?"

"In a way you are, so long as you do not commit any crime. But even though you might not care about yourself, you would not dare to do anything wrong for your daughter's sake. She means so much to you, that you would not dare to commit any desperate act for fear of disgracing her. Is not that so?"

Weston made no reply, but sat looking intently into Reynolds' face.

"There is another reason," the latter continued, "to which I feel certain you can make no objection, and it is _that_."

He pointed as he spoke to a framed picture hanging above the desk. It was the face of a woman of remarkable beauty, and closely resembling Glen, although somewhat older.

Weston, too, looked, and as he did so his face underwent a marvellous transformation. He tried to control himself, but in vain. Rising suddenly to his feet, he paced rapidly up and down the room. Once he stopped and fixed his eyes upon the picture. At length he turned toward his visitor.

"It is true. It is true," he declared, almost fiercely. "To your other reasons I could make some defence, but not to this. I would not dare to do anything wrong for my dear dead wife's sake. Her memory is most precious. Young man, you have hit me hard."

He paused and looked again at the picture. Then he sank down upon his chair, and buried his face in his hands.

Reynolds rose and was about to leave the room, when Weston lifted his head.

"Don't go yet," he ordered, endeavoring to control himself. "I am somewhat unnerved this morning. There is something more I wish to say to you. It is years since I have talked to anyone as I have to you.

Sit down and tell me what you are going to do."

"That remains with you, sir," Reynolds replied, as he resumed his seat.

"With me! It remains with me! I do not understand."

"Am I not your prisoner, sir? It is not what I am going to do, but what you are going to do to me."

"Ah, yes, quite true," and Weston was silent for a few seconds. "But suppose you are given your freedom, what then?" he asked.

"I should go at once in search of my old friend, Frontier Samson," was the decided reply. "He must be greatly concerned about my disappearance, and no doubt he is still seeking for me out in the hills."

"And should you find him----?"

"We would at once visit the gold mine I discovered when I was lost."

"What! did you discover gold? Where?"

"On that last ridge before I reached the river," Reynolds explained.

"I took shelter in a cave from a furious storm, and there found more gold than I ever expected to see in my whole life. The walls of the cave are full of it, and it seems to be of the best quality."

"Do you think you can find the place again?" Weston asked.

"I believe so," and Reynolds briefly described the situation.

"I know it! I know it!" Weston exclaimed. "It is the highest peak on that ridge between here and the Tasan. The side this way is very steep and rocky, is it not?"

"Yes, and the summit is bare. It was there I had a desperate fight with an eagle, killed it, and carried off its eggs, which saved my life. From the high point I caught the first glimpse of the river."

"And suppose you find the gold, what then?" Weston asked.

"Oh, I shall take my share of it, of course."

"And after that?"

"I am not altogether sure. But there is one thing I should do before undertaking anything else. In fact, I am almost pledged to it. Harmon will never forgive me if I don't."

"Harmon, did you say?" Weston questioned. "I once knew a man by that name."

"It is Harmon, editor and princ.i.p.al owner of the _Vancouver Telegram_ and _Evening News_. He has been a father to me, and is greatly interested in my welfare. He has a hobby which I call 'a wild-goose scheme,' and he thinks that I am the only one who can carry it out. He is not the Harmon you knew, I suppose?"

Weston did not at once reply, but sat staring straight before him as if he saw something strange in the wall. His bronzed face had a peculiar pallid color, and his eyes expressed wonder and incredulity. He was forced to keep his hands clasped before him, so great was his emotion.

Reynolds watched him curiously, but said nothing.

"And what is Harmon's hobby?" Weston at length found voice to enquire.

"Oh, a pet scheme for the finding of a man who disappeared years ago."

"And the man's name?" Weston was once more calm.

"Henry Redmond, so he told me. He was a prominent business man, but after the death of his wife he mysteriously vanished, and left no trace of his whereabouts."

"Strange, was it not?" Weston queried, as he furtively eyed the young man. "Perhaps he is dead."

"That is what I suggested to Harmon, but he would not entertain the idea at all."

"Did he give any reason for his belief that the man is alive?"