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Updated: June 7, 2025
He knows it, Conrad Lagrange knows it, Jim Rutlidge knows it, the whole damned clique and gang of you know it, He's like all his kind, a pretender, a poser, playing into the hands of such women as you; to win social position and wealth.
I found tracks on the peak. There were two, a man and a woman. I followed them to a ledge of rock at the head of a canyon," he paused. Thus far the thread of his thought was clear. "Did some one stop me? Was there was there a fight? Or is that part of my dream?" "No," she said softly, "that is not part of your dream." "And it was James Rutlidge who stopped me, as I was going to you?" "Yes."
"I meant you to hear," he returned in a whisper. "Do not be afraid." In a louder tone he continued. "I must go for supplies, Miss Andrés. I will be back to-morrow noon." He stepped around the corner of the cabin, and was gone. Sibyl Andrés faced James Rutlidge, without speaking.
Throw your gun out of reach and I'll leave mine here. We'll meet on the ledge there." James Rutlidge was no coward. Mr. Taine, also, it will be remembered, on the night of his death, boasted that he was game. Without an instant's hesitation, Aaron King unbuckled the belt that held his weapon and, turning, tossed it behind him, with the gun still in its holster.
"Well, what would you do if I should forget?" The answer came deliberately; "If you do not keep your promise I will kill you, Mr. Rutlidge." James Rutlidge did not reply. Stepping to the cabin door, the convict knocked. Sibyl's voice answered, "Yes?" "You may come out now, please, Miss Andrés." As the girl opened the door, she spoke to him in a low tone. "Thank you, Mr. Marston. I heard."
With startling vividness, the incidents of their acquaintance came to him in flash-like succession the day that Rutlidge had met Sibyl in the studio; the time of his visit to the camp in the sycamore grove; the night of the Taine banquet a hundred things that had strengthened the feeling of antagonism which had marked their first meeting.
James Rutlidge had little to say beyond assuring the Ranger of his welcome; and very soon, the officer and the girl set out on their way down the Laurel trail to Clear Creek canyon. As they went, Sibyl's old friend asked not a few questions about her meeting with James Rutlidge; but the girl, walking ahead in the narrow trail, evaded him, and was glad that he could not see her face.
The novelist gave particular attention to his pipe which did not seem to be behaving properly. The artist answered shortly, "No." "I'd certainly make her acquaintance, if I were you," said Rutlidge, with his suggestive smile. "She is a dream. A delightful little retreat that studio of yours."
At the leveled rifle and the sharp command, "Hands up," the poor fellow halted with a gesture of tragic despair. An instant they stood; then the hunted one turned impulsively toward the canyon that, here, lies almost a sheer thousand feet below. James Rutlidge spoke sharply. "Don't do that. I'm not an officer. I want to help you."
In what he called his love for Sibyl Andrés, James Rutlidge was insane but no more so than thousands of others. The methods of securing the objects of their desires vary the motive that prompts is the same the end sought is identical.
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