“You are not dangerously hurt, papa?”

“Bless you, no!  Not now, that you’re here.  Though I believe it would have near killed me if I’d been put out of the running altogether.  I got a crack on the head that sickened me; but the tough old skull held out against it.  And I got an arm broken and a rib cracked——­”

Gloria, aghast, was once more in fear for him.  But he cried impatiently: 

“Don’t you worry about me.  I’ll be on my feet in a week.  Now, listen:  I’ve got to talk fast before somebody comes in.  The doctor is apt to be here any minute, and he’s a stiff-necked tyrant.  You know the trail through the mountains to our place; you rode it twice with King.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to ride it again to-day.  You can get a horse at the stable.  Don’t let any one know where you are going.  I want you to take a message to King.  And it’s got to get to him and into nobody’s hands but his.  Understand that, Gloria?”

Gloria did not answer promptly; she wanted to demur.  She was tired; she was afraid of the mountains; she did not want to see Mark King.  But she saw a terrible earnestness in her father’s eyes and that while he awaited her answer quick fever spots glowed in his cheeks.  She squeezed his hands and replied: 

“Of course, papa.  I’ll do whatever you want.”

“God bless you for that,” he muttered.  “This is sober, serious business, Gloria; you are the only one here I could trust.  King will be at the house; at least I hope he will.  I sent him word several days ago that—­that something was in the wind, and to meet me there.  And, Gloria, I want you to promise, by all that’s good and holy, that you won’t let a word or a sign or a hint slip to anybody else.  Not to a soul on earth.  Will you, Gloria?”

“Yes.”  She looked at him curiously; she had never known her father to be so tensely in earnest.

“Then,” he said, “go turn the key in the lock.  And hurry.  Before any one comes.”

She locked the door and returned to him.

“Feel under my pillow.  Got it?”

She felt the cold barrel of a revolver and started back; never had she known her father to carry arms.  Then, gingerly, she sought again.  She found a small parcel and drew it out.  It was a flattish affair and rectangular, the size and shape of an octavo volume—­a flat box, if not a book.  It was wrapped in a bit of soiled cloth.

“Quick,” he commanded nervously.  “Out of sight with it.  Stick it into your blouse, if you can; tuck it away under your arm; it won’t show so much there.”

Catching something of his suppressed excitement, she obeyed.

“I managed a little note to Mark,” he said when she had buttoned the loose shirt again and he had sunk back, white and exhausted, among his pillows.  “I stuck it inside the cloth.  Lord, if I was only on my feet!  But you’ll do it for me, my girl?  With never a hint to any one?”