"What is it?" murmured Gertrude, watching her lover's face. He studied

the telegram a long time and she came to his side. He raised his eyes

from the paper in his hand and looked out of the window. "What is it?"

she whispered.

"Pilot Hill."

"I do not understand, dearest."

"A wreck."

"Oh, is it serious?"

His eyes fell again on the death message. "Morris Blood was in it and

they can't find him."

"Oh, oh."

"A bad place; a bad, bad place." He spoke, absently, then his eyes

turned upon her with inexpressible tenderness.

"But why can't they find him, dearest?"

"The track is blasted out of the mountain side for half a mile. Bucks

said it would be a graveyard, but I couldn't get to the mines in any

other way. Gertrude, I must go to the Wickiup at once to get further

news. This message has been delayed, the wires are not right yet."

"Will you come back soon?"

"Just the minute I can get definite news about Morris. In half an

hour, probably."

She tried to comfort him when he left her. She knew of the deep

attachment between the two men, and she encouraged her lover to hope

for the best. Not until he had gone did she fully realize how deeply

he was moved. At the window she watched him walk hurriedly down the

street, and as he disappeared, reflected that she had never seen such

an expression on his face as when he read the telegram.

The half hour went while she reflected. Going downstairs she found the

news of the wreck had spread about the hotel, and widely exaggerated

accounts of the disaster were being discussed. Mrs. Whitney and Marie

were out sleighriding, and by the time the half hour had passed without

word from Glover, Gertrude gave way to her restlessness. She had a

telegram to send to New York--an order for bonbons--and she determined

to walk down to the Wickiup to send it; she might, she thought, see

Glover and hear his news sooner.

When she approached the headquarters building unusual numbers of

railroad men were grouped on the platform, talking. Messengers hurried

to and from the roundhouse. A blown engine attached to a day coach was

standing near and men were passing in and out of the car. Gertrude

made her way to the stairs unobserved, walked leisurely up to the

telegraph office and sent her message. The long corridors of the

building, gloomy even on bright days, were quite dark as she left the

operators' room and walked slowly toward the quarters of the

construction department.

The door of the large anteroom was open and the room empty. Gertrude

entered hesitatingly and looked toward Glover's office. His door also

was ajar, but no one was within. The sound of voices came from a

connecting room and she at once distinguished Glover's tones. It was

justification: with her coin purse she tapped lightly on the door

casing, and getting no response stepped inside the office and slipped

into a chair beside his desk to await him. The voices came from a room

leading to Callahan's apartments.




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