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Rising, she said calmly, "I was not expecting any one, Mr. Rutlidge." Again he laughed with unpleasant meaning. "You certainly look to be very much at home." He moved confidently to the easel stool and, seating himself continued with a leering smile, "What's the matter with my taking the artist's place for a little while at least, until he comes?"
"And you're not going to find which way he went?" "Listen, Sibyl," said the Ranger gravely. "The disappearance of James Rutlidge, prominent as he was, will be heralded from one end of the world to the other. The newspapers will make the most of it.
And you did it, old man. This is your key." "What do you mean?" asked the other in confusion taking the key. "Why, I found the studio door wide open, with your key in the lock. You must have been out there, just before we left this morning, and forgot to shut the door. Rutlidge probably noticed it when he was prowling about the place, and was trying to roast me for my carelessness."
I can keep away from them, up here in the mountains, but I can't get out. I won't go back to that hell they call prison though I won't." There was no mistaking his desperate purpose. James Rutlidge thought of that quick movement toward the edge of the trail and the rocky depth below. "You don't seem such a bad sort, at heart," he said invitingly.
As he crossed the threshold, she sprang to the farthest corner of the little room, and cowered, trembling too shaken with horror to cry out. A moment he paused; then started toward her. At that instant, the convict burst through the underbrush into the little opening. Hearing the sound, Rutlidge wheeled and sprang to the open door.
For the legal aspect of the case, James Rutlidge had all the indifference of his kind, who imbibe contempt for law with their mother's milk. For the moment he hesitated. Then, as the figure below passed from his sight, under the point of the spur, he slipped quietly down the mountainside, and, a few minutes later, met the convict face to face.
Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange were returning from town. As they neared their home, they saw one of the Taine automobiles in front of the house. "Company," said the artist with a smile thinking of his letter to the millionaire. "It's Rutlidge," said the novelist noting the absence of the chauffeur.
When Sibyl and Aaron had related briefly the events that led up to their meeting with the Ranger, and he in turn had told them how he had followed the track of the automobile and, finding the hidden supplies, had followed the trail of James Rutlidge from that point, the officer asked the girl several questions.
Perhaps it was the impression left by the memory of Myra Willard's manner at the time of their first meeting with him, three years before, in Brian Oakley's home; perhaps it was because the woman with the disfigured face had so often warned her against permitting her slight acquaintance with Rutlidge to develop; perhaps it was something else some instinct, possible, only, to one of her pure, unspoiled nature whatever it was, the mountain girl who was so naturally unafraid, feared this man who, in his own world, was an acknowledged authority upon matters of the highest spiritual and moral significance.
There must be some peak, at the Cold Water end of this range, from which you can see Fairlands as well as the Galena Valley." "Yes," the other answered eagerly. "And," continued Rutlidge, "there is a good 'auto' road up the Galena Valley. One could get, I should think, to a point within say nine hours of your camp. Do you know anything about the heliograph?"
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