CHAPTER XXIII

THE BACK-FIRE

When Ben Blair left the Baker home he went back to his room at the hotel, closed and locked the door, and, throwing off coat and hat, stretched himself full-length upon the floor, gazing up at the ceiling but seeing nothing.  It had been a hard fight for self-control there on the prairie the day Florence rejected him, but it was as nothing to the tumult that now raged in his brain.  Then, despite his pain, hope had remained.  Now hope was lost, and in its place stood a maddening might-have-been.  Under the compulsion of his will, the white flood of anger had passed, but it only made more difficult the solution of the problem confronting him.  Under the influence of passion the situation would have been a mere physical proposition; but with opportunity to think, another’s wishes and another’s rights—­those of the woman he loved—­challenged him at every turn.

At first it seemed that a removal of his physical presence, a going away never to return, was adequate solution of the difficulty; but he soon realized that it was not.  Deeper than his own love was his desire for the happiness of the girl he had known from childhood.  Had he been certain that she would be happy with the man who had fascinated her, he could have conquered self, could have returned to his prairies, his cattle, his work, and have concealed his hurt.  But it was impossible for him to believe she would be happy.  Without volition on his part he had become an actor in this drama, this comedy, this tragedy,—­whatever it might prove to be; and he felt that it would be an act of cowardice upon his part to leave before the play was ended.  He was not in the least religious in the sense of creed and dogma.  In all his life he had scarcely given a thought to religion.  His knowledge of the Almighty by name had been largely confined to that of a word to conjure with in mastering an obstreperous bronco; but, in the broad sense of personal cleanliness and individual duty, he was religious to the core.  He would not shirk a responsibility, and a responsibility faced him now.

Hour after hour he lay prone while his active brain suggested one course after another, all, upon consideration, proving inadequate.  Gradually out of the chaos one fundamental fact became distinct in his mind.  He must know more of this man Clarence Sidwell before he could leave the city, and this decision brought him to his feet.  Under the circumstances, a strategist might have employed others to gather surreptitiously the information desired; but such was not the nature of Benjamin Blair.  One thing he had learned in dealing with his fellows, which was that the most effective way to secure the thing one wished was to go direct to the man who had it to give.  In this case Sidwell was the man.  With a grim smile Ben remembered the invitation and the address he had received the first night he was in town.  He would avail himself of both.