To Sheila's surprise, instead of the browbeating she had learned to expect, she saw that for some incomprehensible reason it suited him to accept the denial.

"He went to investigate a silver mine," he said after a moment.

"A mine!" she exclaimed; and the knowledge that he had not challenged the lie gave to the exclamation a vehemence so well simulated that it left him somewhat shaken in his first impression.

"That at least is my conviction," he said. "Now for the story."

He spoke rapidly, recounting in trivial detail the various steps by which he had traced Fargus to Mexico and into the dangerous mining region of Durango. From time to time Sheila, who suffered under these numerous details, interrupted, saying:

"Leave that."

"Be more brief."

"But tell me, tell me first of his death!"

"Here we are," Bofinger said finally, after completing without deviation his methodical recital. "On the twenty-fifth day of January, the last day of his life, he quarreled with his attendants and dismissed them. Despite all warnings he then pushed on in the sole company of an Indian breed and arrived at two o'clock at the ranch of a Mexican, Manuel Stroba. Here is his affidavit, the importance of which you'll see later."

As he prepared to read it, she snatched it from his hand, crying:

"Afterward! Go on; oh, do go on!"

"At three o'clock, Fargus left the ranch, intending to make a mission five miles away. The next morning Stroba, in passing through a defile six miles on, the scene of a dozen hold-ups, found the bodies of the two horses. The packs were scattered on the ground alongside of the coat and hat of Fargus stained with blood, in fact everything to indicate a violent conflict, except—except not the slightest trace of Fargus or the half-breed."

She sprang up.

"But then," she cried all in one breath, "he could be alive!"

He looked at her, astonished again at her emotion.

"If it happened yesterday—perhaps," he admitted; adding quickly, with the emphasis a man gives to a statement of which he is determined to be convinced, "but this happened on the twenty-sixth of January and we are now the end of March. If he was taken by bandits, it was for ransom, and if he lived they would have served notice immediately. No, Fargus is dead—dead without a doubt. For me, I suspect the half-breed. He could have murdered him, buried the body, shot the horses, and arranged things to make it seem as though he had shared the same fate. Unfortunately," he added moodily, "unfortunately there is no conceivable way of proving that most necessary fact!"

The ominous significance of his last remark was lost on her. The flash of hope which had so mystified the lawyer disappeared in the dejection caused by his logic. There passed through her an immense breath, which like a tumultuous burst of wind seemed to whirl away a multitude of longings and desires. She remained silent, overwhelmed and convinced.

"But you said there were suspicious circumstances," she said at last. "What circumstances?"

"First," he replied, watching her, "why should he have taken such a journey, at such a risk?"

She shook her head.

"And the next?"

"This. No one in the mines, not a soul, knew of his coming;—in fact, no one had ever heard of the existence of Max Fargus."

This time she could not repress an exclamation.

"So, that does surprise you," he said quickly.

"Why, yes—of course," she admitted grudgingly. She rose, took a step, and reseated herself. "Still, if he were thinking of buying a mine, wouldn't it be like him to look it over first without being known. That might be it."

Bofinger understood that she wished thus to convey to him her knowledge, but without appearing to notice the contradiction, he suddenly broke out:

"What luck, what damnable luck! And I did everything, scoured the country, offered a dozen rewards for the body! No use, not a trace, not a single clew!"

Sheila, who had expected to find him triumphant, recognized again with growing anxiety the note of disaster in his voice.

"Something is wrong?" she said, leaning forward suddenly.

He rose, gave her a glance as though to estimate the probabilities of her attitude, then, oblivious to her presence, suddenly allowed all his anger and defeat to appear.

"It is inconceivable, monstrous, absurd! It is enough to make me superstitious! But that's the way it goes in this world! I surmount everything. I put to sleep the suspicions of a crazy man, play him till he marries you. Good! Everything succeeds like magic. He goes to Mexico on some tantrum and is killed. So far magnificent! Fargus out of the way, the property ours. Nothing could be better. One would say heaven had ordained it. And then—there comes an impossible, an absurd turn,—a preposterous, idiotic bit of luck, and we are stranded high and dry!" He flung himself down and, jarring the table with his fists, cried: "It is enough to make me believe in Providence!"

"But what, what has happened?" she cried, now thoroughly alarmed. "Is there a will?"

"True, you don't see it. You're not a lawyer," he said, stopping short. "Ah, the law is a beautiful thing, a marvelously beautiful thing, my dear! You are satisfied he is dead, aren't you?"

She hesitated, looking at him, wondering if there might be a doubt.

"Of course you are!" he said savagely. "So am I, so would any one,—not the shadow of a doubt. Well, my dear, under the beautiful and equitable system of common-law from which we receive justice, nothing of the sort is allowed. Fargus cannot die for seven years!"

"I don't understand," she said helplessly.

"Because there is no eye-witness of his death nor discovery of the body, the law, my dear, will not admit he is dead for seven years."

"Ah!"

She followed him anxiously, perceiving there was more than she comprehended.

"My dear girl, don't you see what that means?"

"No, not quite."

"It means Fargus being alive, in the eye of the law,—for seven years you can neither marry nor touch"—he paused to give the full blow to his next words—"nor touch one cent of the property."

"But that is terrible! That is not just!" she protested mechanically, still incapable of estimating the sentence. The blow was too crushing, and, before they overwhelm, the great misfortunes demand time. "And that is what you call justice!"

"I, I call it law!" he said with a laugh.

"Well—what can we do?" she asked, turning to him in frightened appeal.

"Nothing—wait."

"But I am his wife—do you mean that I—"

"Cannot touch one cent!"

"But I am his wife!"

"Wedded to a corpse," he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

"And I can neither marry nor inherit the property?"

"Just that."

"For seven years?"

"Correct."

"Seven years," she repeated, drawing her hand across her eyes.

"It is hard."

"Seven years!" she burst out, rising with a cry of despair that thrilled the lawyer. "But that is a lifetime!"

"Eh, its long enough."

"A lifetime!" she repeated more quietly, staring at him with blank eyes.

"It's hard on me too," he said roughly.

"On you!" she cried with a laugh such as despair alone can render horrible. "Oh, on you!"

All at once he understood that the cry had been torn from her by the vision of the youth she saw expiring.

"There now—" he said desperately. "After all, seven years are soon over, and half a million is something to wait for."

"What good will it do me then!" she said, sinking into a chair and covering her face with her hands. Then seized with a convulsive sobbing, she cried, "No, no, it is too cruel. I won't do it, I won't, I can't!"

"Come, don't be a fool," he said angrily, taking her by the shoulder.

"Seven years, seven years!" she cried hysterically. "What good will it do me then, what do I care for money then! Oh, my youth, my youth! And this is the end of it. I knew it, I knew it! Fargus, you were not human! Fargus, you did this to punish me!"

All at once she rose, shaken and frantic as a prophetess, and seizing her hair in her hands cried:

"Oh, those years, I see them, those seven terrible years!"

She began to wander about the room avoiding the lawyer, invoking always the youth which she seemed to see expiring before her, in the inexorable limits of nature.

Bofinger, after a vain attempt to check her, remained helpless in the presence of such hysteria. A moment later he stole from the room, took his satchel and went to the door. There he stopped, waited, saw her convulsed with sobbing, frowned, raised his shoulders and slipped out.

On the sidewalk the gods of suspicion, which ruled him, made him cry suddenly:

"Hell! I am a fool to be so tender-hearted. She's been lyin' to me to hide some mystery. That was the time to put the screws on!"

He hesitated, scanning the shade. From time to time a silhouette passed, frantic and suffering. This shadow, without life or body, representing nothing but an agony, horrified him. He turned and hastened away.