“Bryce Cardigan,” she sobbed.  “I saw him—­he was riding a top log on the train.  He—­ah, God help him!”

The Colonel shook her with sudden ferocity.  “Young Cardigan,” he cried sharply.  “Riding the logs?  Are you certain?”

She nodded, and her shoulders shook piteously.

“Then Bryce Cardigan is gone!” Pennington’s pronouncement was solemn, deadly with its flat finality.  “No man could have rolled down into Mad River with a trainload of logs and survived.  The devil himself couldn’t.”  He heaved a great sigh, and added:  “Well, that clears the atmosphere considerably, although for all his faults, I regret, for his father’s sake, that this dreadful affair has happened.  Well, it can’t be helped, Shirley.  Don’t cry, my dear.  I know it’s terrible, but—­there, there my love.  Do brace up.  Poor devil!  For all his damnable treatment of me, I wouldn’t have had this happen for a million dollars.”

Shirley burst into wild weeping.  Bryce’s heart leaped, for he understood the reason for her grief.  She had sent him away in anger, and he had gone to his death; ergo it would be long before Shirley would forgive herself.  Bryce had not intended presenting himself before her in his battered and bloody condition, but the sight of her distress now was more than he could bear.  He coughed slightly, and the alert Colonel glanced up at him instantly.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” The words fell from Pennington’s lips with a heartiness that was almost touching.  “I thought you’d gone with the train.”

“Sorry to have disappointed you, old top,” Bryce replied blithely, “but I’m just naturally stubborn.  Too bad about the atmosphere you thought cleared a moment ago!  It’s clogged worse than ever now.”

At the sound of Bryce’s voice, Shirley raised her head, whirled and looked up at him.  He held his handkerchief over his gory face that the sight might not distress her; he could have whooped with delight at the joy that flashed through her wet lids.

“Bryce Cardigan,” she commanded sternly, “come down here this instant.”

“I’m not a pretty sight, Shirley.  Better let me go about my business.”

She stamped her foot.  “Come here!”

“Well, since you insist,” he replied, and he slid down the bank.

“How did you get up there—­and what do you mean by hiding there spying on me, you—­you—­oh, you!”

“Cuss a little, if it will help any,” he suggested.  “I had to get out of your way—­out of your sight—­and up there was the best place.  I was on the roof of the caboose when it toppled over, so all I had to do was step ashore and sit down.”

“Then why didn’t you stay there?” she demanded furiously.

“You wouldn’t let me,” he answered demurely.  “And when I saw you weeping because I was supposed to be with the angels, I couldn’t help coughing to let you know I was still hanging around, ornery as a book-agent.”