"You said I told you there was a girl," he said. "Did I tell you her
name?"
"No."
"All right. Go to sleep. I thought if I heard it it might help."
Bassett lay back and watched him.
"Better get some sleep, old man," he said.
He dozed, to waken again cold and shivering. The fire had burned low,
and Dick was sitting near it, unheeding, and in a deep study. He looked
up, and Bassett was shocked at the quiet tragedy in his face.
"Where is Beverly Carlysle now?" he asked. "Or do you know?"
"Yes. I saw her not long ago."
"Is she married again?"
"No. She's revived 'The Valley,' and she's in New York with it."
Dick slept for only an hour or so that night, but as he slept he
dreamed. In his dream he was at peace and happy, and there was a girl
in a black frock who seemed to be a part of that peace. When he roused,
however, still with the warmth of his dream on him, he could not summon
her. She had slipped away among the shadows of the night.
He sat by the fire in the grip of a great despair. He had lost ten years
out of his life, his best years. And he could not go back to where he
had left off. There was nothing to go back to but shame and remorse.
He looked at Bassett, lying by the fire, and tried to fit him into the
situation. Who was he, and why was he here? Why had he ridden out at
night alone, into unknown mountains, to find him?
As though his intent gaze had roused the sleeper, Bassett opened his
eyes, at first drowsily, then wide awake. He raised himself on his
elbow and listened, as though for some far-off sound, and his face was
strained and anxious. But the night was silent, and he relaxed and slept
again.
Something that had been forming itself in Dick's mind suddenly
crystallized into conviction. He rose and walked to the edge of the
mountain wall and stood there listening. When he went back to the
fire he felt in his pockets, found a small pad and pencil, and bending
forward to catch the light, commenced to write... At dawn Bassett
wakened. He was stiff and wretched, and he grunted as he moved. He
turned over and surveyed the small plateau. It was empty, except for his
horse, making its continuous, hopeless search for grass.