“Has he lost interest in the things which formerly
attracted and occupied him?”
“Yes, he minds nothing now. He has no care
for the condition of the cattle, or for profit or
loss in the sales. He has simply stepped out of
every employment.”
“Ah, a gradual diminution of the faculties of
attention.”
“In a way, yes. But also he is more alive
than he has ever been. He seems to hear with
uncanny distinctness, for instance.”
The doctor frowned.
“I was inclined to attribute his decline to
the operation of old age,” he remarked, “but
this is unusual. This—er—inner
acuteness is accompanied by no particular interest
in any one thing?”.
As she did not reply for the moment he was about to
accept the silence for acquiescence, but then through
the dimness he was arrested by the lustre of her eyes,
fixed, apparently, far beyond him.
“One thing,” she said at length.
“Yes, there is one thing in which he retains
an interest.”
The doctor nodded brightly.
“Good!” he said. “And that—?”
The silence fell again, but this time he was more
roused and he fixed his eyes keenly upon her through
the gloom. She was deeply troubled; one hand
gripped the horn of her saddle strongly; her lips had
parted; she was like one who endures inescapable pain.
He could not tell whether it was the slight breeze
which disturbed her blouse or the rapid panting of
her breath.
“Of that,” she said, “it is hard
to speak—it is useless to speak!”
“Surely not!” protested the doctor.
“The cause, my dear madame, though perhaps apparently
remote from the immediate issue, is of the utmost
significance in diagnosis.”
She broke in rapidly: “This is all I can
tell you: he is waiting for something which will
never come. He has missed something from his life
which will never come back into it. Then why should
we discuss what it is that he has missed.”
“To the critical mind,” replied the doctor
calmly, and he automatically adjusted his glasses
closer to his eyes, “nothing is without significance.”
“It is nearly dark!” she exclaimed hurriedly.
“Let us ride on.”
“First,” he suggested, “I must tell
you that before I left Elkhead I heard a hint of some
remarkable story concerning a man and a horse and a
dog. Is there anything—”
But it seemed that she did not hear. He heard
a sharp, low exclamation which might have been addressed
to her horse, and the next instant she was galloping
swiftly down the slope. The doctor followed as
fast as he could, jouncing in the saddle until he
was quite out of breath.
THE CHAIN
They had hardly passed the front door of the house
when they were met by a tall man with dark hair and
dark, deep-set eyes. He was tanned to the bronze
of an Indian, and he might have been termed handsome
had not his features been so deeply cut and roughly
finished. His black hair was quite long, and
as the wind from the opened door stirred it, there
was a touch of wildness about the fellow that made
the heart of Randall Byrne jump. When this man
saw the girl his face lighted, briefly; when his glance
fell on Byrne the light went out.
