Beth Norvell

There followed three years of silence, three years of waiting for that

message which never came. As though she had dropped into an ocean of

oblivion, Beth Norvell disappeared. Winston had no longer the

slightest hope that a word from her would ever come, and there were

times when he wondered if it was not better so--if, after all, she had

not chosen rightly. Love untarnished lived in his heart; yet, as she

had told him out in the desert, love could never change the deed. That

remained--black, grim, unblotted, the unalterable death stain. Why,

then, should they meet? Why seek even to know of each other? Close

together, or far apart, there yawned a bottomless gulf between.

Silence was better; silence, and the mercy of partial forgetfulness.

Winston had toiled hard during those years, partly from a natural

liking, partly to forget his heartaches. Feverishly he had taken up

the tasks confronting him, sinking self in the thought of other things.

Such work had conquered success, for he did his part in subjecting

nature to man, thus winning a reputation already ranking him high among

the mining experts of the West. His had become a name to conjure with

in the mountains and mining camps. During the long months he had hoped

fiercely. Yet he had made no endeavor to seek her out, or to uncover

her secret. Deep within his heart lay a respect for her choice, and he

would have held it almost a crime to invade the privacy that her

continued silence had created. So he resolutely locked the secret

within his own soul, becoming more quiet in manner, more reserved in

speech, with every long month of waiting, constantly striving to forget

the past amid a multitude of business and professional cares.

It was at the close of a winter's day in Chicago. Snow clouds were

scurrying in from over the dun-colored waters of the lake, bringing

with them an early twilight. Already myriads of lights were twinkling

in the high office buildings, and showing brilliant above the smooth

asphalt of Michigan Avenue. The endless stream of vehicles homeward

bound began to thicken, the broad highway became a scene of continuous

motion and display. After hastily consulting the ponderous pages of a

city directory in an adjacent drug store, a young man, attired in dark

business suit, his broad shoulders those of an athlete, his face

strongly marked and full of character, and bronzed even at this season

by out-of-door living, hurried across the street and entered the busy

doorway of the Railway Exchange Building. On the seventh floor he

unceremoniously flung open a door bearing the number sought, and

stepped within to confront the office boy, who as instantly frowned his

disapproval.

"Office hours over," the latter announced shortly. "Just shuttin' up."

"I am not here on business, my lad," was the good-natured reply, "but

in the hope of catching Mr. Craig before he got away."